1 1- 



^"- • ■ ' - ■ 





C«-. Jlc«Uon 



Tl 



POEMS 



ON 



VARIOUS SUBJECTS 



BY 



JOHN JOHNSTONE. 

CRAIGHOUSE, CORRIE. 

A NEW EDITION, WITH ADDITIONAL POEMS, 

AND 

3 ffltvxoiv of fyt ^utljor 
BY W . JOHNSTONE, 

FORMERLY EDITOR OF THE DUMFRIES STANDARD. 

AUTHOR OF "FRENCH PULPIT ELOQUENCE," 

"VOICE FROM THE SCHOOLROOM," ETC. 



EDINBURGH: OLIVER AND BOYD. 

DUMFRIES : W. F. JOHNSTONE. 
LOCKERBIE : D. HALLIDAY. 



MDCCCLVII. 






"" GIFT 

BOG. JAMES B, CHILDCRS 
"^N*. JULY 26, 19** 



TO 

JOHN JAIES HOPE JOHNSTONE, ESQ. 

OF ANNANDALE, 

THE REPRESENTATIVE OF A FAMILY 

TO WHICH 



THE AUTHOR IS DEEPLY INDEBTED, 



AND FOR WHICH 

HE WILL EVER CHERISH THE MOST 
RESPECTFUL ATTACHMENT, 

THIS LITTLE VOLUME 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF GRATITUDE 
AND ESTEEM, 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND HUMBLE SERVANT, 

JOHN JOHNSTONE. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Poems of the late John Johnstone, Poet of 
Corrie, published in 1820, having become so scarce 
as rarely to be met with, while frequent enquiries 
have been made for the work; it was thought desirable, 
that a new edition should be issued, including a num- 
ber of his poetical pieces written subsequently to the 
publication of his volume ; and accompanied with a 
brief memoir of the author. This has accordingly 
been done, which, it is hoped, may render the present 
edition still more acceptable to the reader. 

It is, however, proper to state, that the present re- 
issue of the Poems has been greatly promoted by the 
friends and admirers of the late Poet, in order that 
the profits of the publication may be devoted to the 
benefit of his only surviving son, and youngest child, 
who, from physical weakness and infirmity, is wholly 
dependant on the kindness of others. 

The Author's original Dedication of his work, to> 
J, J, Hope Johnstone, Esq. of Annandale, has, m 
the present edition, been scrupulously retained. 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



It is a disputed point, whether the pursuits of elegant 
literature contribute more to the happiness or misery 
of the lower orders of society ; but, if I may be allow- 
ed to judge from my own experience, I think they 
contribute more to the former. 

It was my destiny to be cast early upon the world, 
far removed from parental authority, with passions 
sufficiently strong, and amidst scenes of vice suffici- 
ently tempting ; but in every interval of rest, my 
love for reading made me fly from conversations that 
were frivolous, and pursuits perhaps pernicious, to 
hold communion with the virtuous absent, or illust- 
rious dead. These intervals were indeed too short to 
enable me to make any consideradle improvement; 
yet still they were both a secret source of happiness 
and a preservative from danger, and made me even 
more anxious to fulfil the duties of my station, least, 
while I was attempting to improve my mind, I might 
disgrace my character. But, if reading be consider- 
ed reprehensible by many worthy people, rhyming 
mubt appear still more so. As every man ought to 



Vlll PREFACE, 

respect his moral character more than the highest 
honours that were ever conferred upon the mere ef- 
forts of genius, I think it necessary to make some a- 
pology for thus, perhaps, diviating from the beaten 
path of honest and unaspiring industry. It is a well 
known fact, that many of the most laborious tasks of 
life may be peformed with very little or no attention 
of the mind; — possessed of this power of mental ab- 
straction, and mechanical motion, what is to hinder 
the labouring man from investigating any subject 
within his comprehension, so as to imitate those who 
have both more learning and leisure? In this view, 
can he be considered as culpable, when his memory 
retains every word which his invention dictates, and 
his judgement approves ? Possessing this power of 
completely dividing my attention, and recollecting 
my words, I had no need to suspend my manual lab- 
our, in order to invoke the Muses; they were not even 
unpropitious during the unremitting toils of a harvest 
lield ; nor did ever my nearest relatives and most in- 
timate companions know when my fancy was thus 
employed. I was also so fortunate as to have a very 
extensive acquaintance amongst students, and other 
characters inclined to literature, who read to me 
while they employed me in the way of business. Nor 
was my house ever long without such visitants ; and 
it was also owing to these friends, or rather- 
flatterer^ that these Poems were ever written. I had 



PREFACE. IX 

no time for such an exersise myself; and I have still 
some doubts whether to attribute it to their kindness 
or cruelty that I am brought before the Public as an 
Author, being certain that I will meet at such a bar 
more to mortify my pride than to flatter my vanity. 
I am astonished at the number of my subscribers, 
many of them eminent for their sancity of character 
as well as elevation of rank. I have not terms to ex- 
press my grateful acknowledgements for their kind- 
ness; but I have to attridute their patronage more 
to my good intentions as a man, than my merit aa 
a poet. 



CONTENTS. 



Pagb 

Preface, - vi 
Memoir of the Author, - - xi 
Introduction, - - - - 1 
To the Evening Star, - 5 
On the Early Days and Death of Sir And- 
rew Halliday, K.G., &c. - - 7 
On the Death of John Thomson, - - 11 
An Address to Reading, - - 1& 
Address to a Bird, - - -» 18 
Address to a Daisy, growing on a Rock, - 21 
To an old Sailor, - 23 
Address to Laziness, 25 
To a Bird pursued by a Hawk, - - 2& 
To Charity, ..' . _ 27 
Verses, addressed to a Young Man when a- 

bout to leave his native country, - 30 
Elegy on the Death of the Right Hon, Earl 

ofHopetoun, 32 



CONTENTS. 



Page 



On the Death of the Right Hon. Lady Ann 

Hope Johnstone, - - - 36 

On the Death of D, Graham, Esq., 39 

On the Death of M B - 4l 

A Pastoral Elegy, to the Memory of Miss S. 44 

Verses to the Memory of J. G. m, - 47 

On the untimely Death of Mr Simpson, - 49 

Lamentation of an Imprisoned Radical, - 53 

An Evening Walk on the Banks of Corrie, 59 

This is not our Rest, - - - 61 

Verses on the New Jail of Dumfries, - 64 

On the prospect of Peace and Plenty in 1801, 66 
Verses recommending the Defence of our 

Country, 68 

To a Friend about to embark for America, 69 

Jamie and Mary, - ( 72 

To my Country, 76 

Walter and Jean, 78 

To the Rev. J. W , - _ 84 

Death of Dear-Meal Johnnie, 89 

Jamie Lowther, 95 

Death of Laird Johnstone, - - 99 

The Widow and her Son, - . 102 

Verses to - - . 108 

Bodkin Ben, - - - - 109 

Nicky's Lament, - - _ 113 

r ro Mrs J. on leaving her native Country, 116 



CONTENTS. xiil 





Page 


To the Bible, .... 


119 


Address to Two Female Sabbath School 




Teachers, ~ 


124 


To Two Friends of my Youth, 


126 


To the Rev. J. R. Currie, Hutton Manse, 


129 


SONGS. 




My Bonny Jean, * . ,. 


131 


O Mither, I'se gaun to be Married, 


133 


A Song made in Early Life, 


134 


Song, in conformity with the Doctrine of 




Malthus, 


136 


The Banks of Corrie, - 


13/ 


Conclusion — Stanzas to my own Book, - 


140 


NOTES. 




Jamie and Mary, ... 


143 


Walter and Jean, - - _ 


ib. 


Death of Dear-Meal Johnnie, - 


144 


Laird Johnstone. - 


148 


Nicky's Lament, - 


ib. 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 



While it cannot be denied, that the interest of 
every biographical narrative must, in a great measure, 
depend on the sphere of action and importance of the 
events which have destinguished the career of him 
who is the subject of it ; yet it is no less true that 
every man has a history full of deep import — a tale to 
tell of the battle of life— -his triumphs and defeats — 
his pains and pleasures — his exertions and rewards : 
and he, who has acted his part well, and advanced far 
before his compeers, in whatever condition of life his 
lot may have been cast, is justly entitled to our at- 
tention, and regard. 

John Johnstone, author of the present volume of 
poems, was born in the year 17^1, in one of the cot- 
tage homes on the banks of the Corrie, a pleasing up- 
land stream which unites with the Milk, one of the 
eastern tributaries of the river Annan. Corrielaw is 
said to have been the place of his birth. His father, 
John Johnstone, was much respected for his earnest 
piety, intelligence, and irreproachable life ; but was, 
perhaps, of too easy, kind, and confiding a disposition 



XIV MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

to force hts way successfully in the great scramble of 
the world. He must, at one time, have been in rath- 
er good circumstances, as he is said to have thought 
of purchasing a property of considerable extent; but 
how his money was lost or squandered, we have not 
been informed. He married Agnes Johnstone, moth- 
er of the Poet, a worthy, prudent, and pious woman, 
John was the eldest of their family, which consisted 
of several children. At that period the means of ed- 
ucation were ill supplied in the rural district where 
they resided ; and his attainments at school were limit- 
ed to a knowledg of reading and writing, and some 
slight acquaintance with the initiatory rules of arith- 
metic. At the time of life when he was capable of 
being usefully employed, the circumstances of his 
parents were not above allowing him to engage, as a 
shepherd boy, in the service of some of the neighbour- 
ing farmers, as we learn from his own verses, iu 
which he says — 

But ah ! iu youth's gay sporting reign, 
Fell servitude prepared her chain ; 
And now with naked feet, and sore, 
He treads the plains and heath-clad moor, 
Bears scorching heat and shivering cold, 
Till many a year had o'er him roll'd. 

He was subsequently put to the trade of a shoemaker, 
to which he served a regular apprenticeship ; and 
after working at his business for some time, as jour- 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XVII 

neyman, he established himself as a master shoemak- 
er, at Craighouse of Corrie, where he continued to 
reside for nearly thirty years. Here he married 
Agnes Johnstone, a respectable young woman, daugh- 
ter of William Johnstone, farmer in Craighouse, 
whose ancestors were said to have resided on the same 
farm for about three hundred years. In her he ob- 
tained an excellent, prudent, and affectionate wife, 
and a valuable partner in life, who by her care and 
industry contributed largely to their domestic com- 
fort. She brought him a family of three sons and 
four daughters, all of whom and their mother surviv- 
ed him, except one son who died young. Our author, 
being thus settled in life, was not unmindful of the 
duties devolving upou him as a husband and father, 
nor indifferent to the comfort of his family. He ap- 
plied himself to his business with becoming diligence, 
and as he was an excellent workman, he soon drew a 
large circle of customers, and found plenty of em- 
ployment for himself and several apprentices ; to a 
considerable number of whom he taught his trade ; 
and they were generally remarked, in after life, for 
their intelligence, good conduct, and their success in 
business. 

It may not be out of place here to take a brief 
glance at the social condition and character of the 
people of Corrie, at the time when the subject of 
our memoir took up his residence among them, which 
a period of seventy years has very materially changed. 



XVlll MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

Then most of the district was leased in small farms; 
and the larger ones were apportioned out among 
several tenants, who, with their families, wrought 
on their own farms, and none was exempted from tak- 
ing his share in the labours of the field. In cases 
where servants were employed, who were generally 
the sons and daughters of neighbouring farmers, they 
wrought along with their masters, sat at the same 
table, and lived with them as members of the same 
family. It w r as a golden age of equality ; a rural de- 
mocracy possessed the land. In the whole parish of 
Corrie, there was only one man, a householder, who 
did not hold the rank of a leaseholder in land ; and 
he was an Irishman. The mode of living and the habits 
of the people were frugal, temperate, plain, and 
simple, in the extreme, extending only to the com- 
monest conveniences aud necessaries of life ; its lux- 
uries were unknown and undesired ; but pauperism, 
or extreme poverty, was not found in all their bor- 
ders. They were universally hospitable, friendly, and 
obliging : and their conduct to infirm and less for- 
tunate relatives was a living exemplification of the 
language of the ingenious Poet* and friend of the 

industrious classes ; 

Our Mither a pauper ! na, never as lang 

As I have hands to work and a morsel to spare ; 

At my ingle neuk she shall hae, though we're thrang, 

The coosiest corner and the easiest chair. 

. — - j^ — 

* The Rev. Charles Marshall. Dumfermline. Author of 
^Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women/' 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XIX 

Their houses, in those days, were generally built of 
stone and turf with a suitable covering of thatch. It 
was recollected when even the kirk had modestly worn 
a homely coat of native heather ; which an unlucky 
sportsman set on fire, while taking aim at some of the 
feathered tribe, that had perched there in fancied safe- 
ty. The householder in the district, whose ambition 
first aspired to a slate roof, had to convey his ma- 
terials many miles on the backs of horses. Maeadam 
was still engrossed with the mysteries of mercantile 
life in New York ; and the good folks of Corrie had not 
yet attained to very enlarged ideas of "mending their 
ways," in order to facilitate communication and the 
transit of goods. On looking into the interior of 
their primitive abodes, it was found to be quite in 
keeping with the external appearance. On the mid- 
dle of the floor blazed a fire of turf, which the family 
surrounded on all sides, with a long array of "creepies 
and currie-stools," amid posts classically "black with 
continual smoke." The luxury of a glass window 
was enjoyed only by the few pioneers in the march of 
improvement. Our author's establishment had the 
accommodation of such a domicile, to which and his 
worldly means he playfully alludes in his "Address 

to Laziness." 

My supple purse o' money toom'd 
My hollow chest, the meal consumed, 
My worn out, torn and ragged weed, 
My house just tumbling o'er my head, 
While through the roof the black rain fs 



XX MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

The whistlin' win' soughs through the wa f g\ 
Thus, while the clouds descend in streams. 
My floor a little ocean seems, — 
Where clogs and curries ship-like sail, 
Impeli'd, too, by the boisterous gale, 
Till through some rattan-houkit hole 
The sooty waters 'swaging roll. 
But -in these homely, rustic residences were to be 
found much intelligence, piety, and worth. The moral 
and religious character of the people, generally, was of 
a much higher standard than is commonly to be met 
with, in these our degenerate days. Attendance on 
religious ordinances was a duty seldom neglected, even 
when imposing a journey of eight or ten miles; and it 
was no uncommon thing to find these rustic fathers of 
families engaging with their households, in family 
worship, regularly morning and evening, in the busi- 
est seasous of the year. Many of them were deeply 
read in Theology : and they were largely imbued with 
the stern, rigid spirit of their covenanting ancestors. 
For laxity of morals and neglect of religious duties they 
could accept of no apology. They had been all, at 
one time, zealous adherents of the Established Church, 
but the blighting policy, pursued by Principal Robert- 
son and the moderate party, had given them great of- 
fence, and driven many of them from her pale. The 
law of patronage had become omnipotent in the 
Church, and nowhere were its effects more grievous- 
ly felt than in the united parishes of Hutton and 
Corrie. Principal Robertson had a brother-in-law 
called Nisbet, incompetent for business, in which he 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR XXI 

had failed to succeed. The Principal's influence lay 
in the direction of the Church, of which he naturally 
bethought himself. By his friendly services Nishet 
became a Minister and a Doctor in Divinity, and was 
transferred to Huttou and Corrie for the edification 
of the lieges there. So contemptible were this man's 
ministerial abilities that his ordinary audiences were 
confined to two or three old women and a few boys, 
sometimes assembled in the kirk and sometimes in the 
kitchen. His chief counsellor, precentor, beadle, and 
man of business, John Telford, was regarded as a half 
witted, eccentric, and godless ch aracter, who read for- 
tunes, and pried into futurity by ''turning the riddle". 
The old women listened with decency of deportment,, 
as became their years ; but the boys were often noisy 
and troublesome. The Doctor's patience had limits, 
and his periods were sometimes rounded with the 
emphatic phrase, "turn out the boys, John." That 
sensible functionary, however, did not always take 
him at his word ; but with a due regard to circum- 
stances would reply ; "If I turn out the boys, whae 

the d , Sir, will you have to preach to?" The 

two worthies became the standing jest of the parish, 
The young poet, with the ardour of youth, and a be- 
coming contempt for "shams and insincerities/'readily 
followed the example of the more piously disposed part 
of the parishioners, accompanying them many miles to 
a dissenting Meeting House. He used, however, to 
acknowledge that he joined the ranks of the Dissenters 



XX 11 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, 

more from the pleasure he took in discussing with 
them snbjects of Divinity, than from zeal for their 
cause. He afterwards returned to the communion of 
the Establishment, having discovered, as he alleged, 
that there existed among Dissenters, a description of 
patronage no less absolute and offensive, than in the 
Established Church ; which was the chief cause of his 
having withdrawn from her. We merely give his 
views on the subject, though far from concurring in 
their soundness. It is no doubt true that in every 
society, the masses will readily follow in the wake of 
leading men and leading minds ; such influence is un- 
avoidable, and it may not be always wisely and judic- 
ously exercised ; but when every member exercises 
the right to approve, or dissent, it is the fault of the 
members and not of the system, if there is reason to 
complain of patronage. He used also to give it as 
his opinion, that a really pious and zealous minister 
had a much better field for doing good, in the Estab- 
lishment, than among Dissenters; the very fact of 
whose having left the Established Church showed 
that their minds were already anxiously directed to 
the subject of religion. 

From an early age the subject of our memoir was 
devoted to reading and books : and notwithstanding 
his imperfect education, and the continual occupation 
of his time with his ordinary employment, so ardent 
was his thirst for knowledge, and so insatiable the 
curiosity of his active mind, that his information soon 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XXlli 

ranged over a wide variety of subjects; and his appli- 
cation to self-improvement, in a great measure, com- 
pensated for the want of early training. When he 
first began to write verses, we are not aware ; most 
probably at an early period of life. He had written 
poetry and entertained the hope of attaining to some 
poetical distinction, before Burns appeared as an 
author. With the Ayrshire Poet, who was two years 
his senior, he had met only once and had little to tell 
of him ; but he had read his fk Tam o' Shanter" in 
manuscript before its publication : and the enthusi- 
astic admiration and universal burst of applause which 
followed the appearanee of Burns' poems, greatly dis- 
couraged the Bard of Corrie, in his efforts to gain 
that honourable place as a poet, which had been the 
object of his early hopes ; — now that the public had 
listened with such rapture and delight to the sweet 
and soul-subduing strains of the great master of the 
national lyre. Subsequently he seems to have regard- 
ed the composition of poetry, merely as a pastime for 
the amusement of himself, or others, with little or no 
view to publication, as he informs us in the following 

lines ; — 

Amid his toils, sweet weut the time, 
Whilst silent oft he formed the rhyme, 
His audience still the village swains, 
Whose plaudits more than paid his pains, 
But ne'er dream'd he they'd find their way 
To lordly halls and ladies gay. 

Anions the honest rustic class of men who constitute 



XX I V ^lEMOIE OF THE AUTHOR. 

ed the society of the district, our poet lived in the 
most friendly intercourse and familiarity. They held 
him in high respect for his superior intelligence ; 
they admired his genius, and loved him for his kind, 
friendly, and benevolent disposition. He was always 
a welcome and favourite visiter at their homes ; and 
his amusing and instructive conversation was equally 
interesting to young and old. Like the poet Moore, 
in the drawing rooms and saloons of the great, the 
Bard of Corrie did not hesitate to entertain his friends 
with one of his poems or songs, which always afforded 
them amusement and gratification. Many of his 
poetical pieces they got by heart, and often en- 
tertained each other by reciting them. As he possess- 
ed a lively vein of comic wit and humour, with con- 
siderable satirical power ; his poems, destinguished by 
these characteristics, established his popularity among 
the humbler classes. Many of these pieces, however, 
were forgotten with the characters or circumstances 
from which they had originated ; and when his vol- 
ume of poems was published, he would not consent 
to have them resuscitated. His house and workshop 
soon became a favourite resort for all who had time 
to spare and found pleasure in his interesting conver- 
sation, which embraced a vast variety of topics. His 
reading was so extensive that there were few subjects 
with which he had not some acquaintance ; and hav- 
ing a retentive memory and a ready command of ap- 
propriate language, he could communicate the inform- 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR XX V 

anon he had acquired with remarkable fluency and 
spirit. His own ideas were liberal and enlightened, 
often original, and manifested a discriminating taste 
and sound judgement. His visiters consisted of all 
classes, from the clergyman and scholar to the illiter- 
ate peasant . and there were none in whose company 
he couid not find pleasure and interest ; as they always 
afforded him an opportunity of either receiving inform- 
ation himself, or of communicating it, in his turn. Of 
those who frequented his house and delighted in his 
conversation, we have room to mention only a very few 
of the more remarkable characters. Among these 
cernainly the most singular and eccentric was Archie 
Halliday, the Pedler. Along with his small mercantile 
negotiations, Archie, though bred a tailor, studied the 
learned languages, Theology, Mathematics, and gen- 
eral literature. He could translate Latin, and he never 
travelled without a Hebrew Bible and Greek Testa- 
ment in his pack. On the correct pronunciation of 
the Hebrew he would discourse with all the zeal and 
dogmatism of a Buxtorf ; the violation of which he re- 
garded as a fearful desecration of the sacred text. His 
memory was so tenacious that he could perform men- 
tally a long and difficult calculation sooner than most 
people could do with a slate and pencil. He was 
a strictly religious man of the Cameronian school, and 
of the purest moral principles. But his remarkable 
capacity was strangely allied to madness. Of two 
things he lived ia perpetual terror, poison and the bite 



XXVI MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

of a mad dog ; and he had two objects of implacable 
antipathy, popery aud the paraphrases. Against the 
use of the Scripture paraphrases in public worship, he 
wrote two separate works, in which he brings many 
grevious accusations against the authors of these sacred 
songs. Take as a specimen of his strictures, his re- 
marks on the lines 

"The soul is led to solemn thought 

And wafted to the skies," 

There is nothing in the sky, says our critic, but the 
sun, moon, and stars, which were objects of idolatrous 
worship among the old Heathen. Here then was an 
attempt to introduce Heathen worship in Christian 
times. What could be worse ? When Archie got 
hold of a Bible containing the paraphrases, he im- 
mediately proceeded to cut them out, if not watched 
and prevented. His own books were a heavy drug in 
the market ; and worst of all, he believed the Printer, 
with whom he had quarrelled, had poisoned a whole 
impression, from motives of reveuge ; and not daring, 
in consepuence, to touch the books with his hands, he 
used to carry a parcel of them, about with him for 
sale, suspended at the end of a string, When re- 
monstrated with for selling poisned books, he replied, 
that they were not dangerous to others but only to 
himself; as his system drank in poison at every pore. 
Many stories are told of his eccentricities. When 
some person, who knew his weakness and wished to 
play upon his credulity, told him that he had taken 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XXVI* 

Ms supper out of a dish in which a mad dog had been 
eating, he expressed himself dreadfully alarmed; and 
shortly after cried out that it must be true, as "he 
felt inclined to bark." He then gave some one a 
shilling to run for a Doctor, and at the same time 
ran off himself, on the same errand, leaving his mes- 
senger far behind. Archie also wrote a small treatise 
on the Gregorian Calendar, which he indignantly re- 
pudiates, and treats Pope Gregory XIII and his chron- 
ological reforms, with merciless severity ; in compari- 
son with whom he considers Julius Caesar a well inform- 
ed and respectable personage. Archie was from an 
early period of life a devoted friend, and admirer of 
the genius and poetical productions, of the Bard of 
of Corrie ; and the Pedler's remarkable memory en- 
abled him to get them almost wholly by heart ; so 
that wherever he went in his devious wanderings, 
there went also the poems and songs of his friend the 
Poet ; and as he took great delight in entertaining 
his customers by reciting them, — representing a kind 
of mongrel character between the ancient minstrel 
and the modern pedler, — the poetry of our author was 
thus known and appreciated over most of the 
Border districts, for many years before his volume ap- 
peared in print. 

Anothor of the Poet's most faithful friends and fa- 
miliar associates, for the long period of forty years, 
was William Graham, sometimes called the Bard of 
Milk, author of a volume of poems ; which with other 



XX VI 11 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

merits, exhibit great exactness of taste, ease and 
fluency of versification, and an elegance of poetic dict- 
ion rarely exceeded. In Graham he found a man of 
kindred sympathies., tastes, and genius ; and their long 
and friendly intercourse must have been a source of 
much mutual enjoyment, whatever higher advantages 
it might confer. 

Among those who frequented the workshop of the 
Poet of Corrie, about sixty years ago, might be seen 
a fair haired, laughing faced, bare footed little boy su 
bout twelve years of age, listening with wonderment 
and delight to some tale of marvellous achievment, or 
the bright career of some child of genius and favourite 
of fortune ; and evidently drinking in inspiration from 
the literary enthusiasm, which pervaded the atmo- 
sphere of this humble haunt of the muses. But hav- 
ing received from the Poet a few gratifying express- 
ions of kind!- recognition, and the loan of a much 
coveted volume, he is away like an arrow, with his 
dog, to the cattle in the neigbouring field. That was 
Andrew, the "wee herd laddie" of the old Elder, John 
Johnstone of Penlaw, with whom and his son Thomas 
he has resided for a number of years. But he does not 
Hve there like an ordinary hireling. He has found 
his way to the heart of the austere old man, who loves 
him like his own child, and already regards him as 
"no vulgar boy." When the "wee herd laddie" re~ 
turns home in the evening from his long day's jour- 
neyings after the cattle "through dub and myre," and 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XXIX 

sits down to wash his sore and weary feet, it is amus- 
ing to see his old master sitting down beside him, 
sympathizing with his ailments, and carrying him af- 
fectionately to bed on his own back. When Andrew 
wishes to visit his father and mother and tell them 
how he fares, the old man mounts him on his favour- 
ite pony, though he will sometimes hint to his son 
Thomas, when disposed to put its services in requisit- 
ion, that it is not unbecoming for a gentleman to walk 
in his boots, Such curious traits of the kind 
hearted, simple habits of those olden times deserve to 
be remembered. Andrew, for one of his years, has 
got a strange propensity for reading books, — the Bible, 
sermon books, story books, poetry, history ; and what- 
ever book he reads, his memory is so retentive, his 
judgement so matured, and he so masters its contents, 
that he is wont to astonish and delight the old Elder 
and his friend the Poet, with his capacity and remarks. 
It is true, his continued eagerness in reading does not 
improve his vigilance as a herdsman, and the cattle 
will sometimes get into the corn, which no one more 
regrets than himself; but then he is such a good dis- 
positioned, willing, truthful, and obedient little fellow, 
that it is impossible for the good old man to be angry 
with him ; and his friend, Thomas, has oftener an 
excuse than a reproof for his shortcomings. 

For five years Andrew continued in the same rural 
sojourn, during which time, one of his favourite haunts 
was the workshop of the Poet, with whom he became 



XXX 3IEM0IR OF THE- AUTHOR, 

a great favourite and friend; learned to talk with bins 
on poetry, history, criticism, and other subjects ; and 
to discuss obstruse points in Theology with the old 
Elder. He also managed when his cattle were on the 
"Common," in the vicinity of the School, to get 
lessons in Latin and other branches; the study of 
which he prosecuted with such wonderful persever- 
ance and success, that he at length resolved to relin- 
quish his agricultural engagements, and endeavour to 
turn his acquirements to some account, by instructing 
others. Accordingly, after receiving many pious ad- 
vices from the good old Elder and the kindest wishes 
of his son Thomas; and many cheering and animat- 
ing counsels from his kind friend the Poet, he bid 
farewell to Corrie, and went to take possession of a 
little school, where he entered on the duties of a 
teacher. Here while giving instruction to others he 
continued vigorously to prosecute his own studies ; 
and after a short period, he found himself possessed of 
sufficient means to defray his expenses, during a ses- 
sion at the University. He consequently repaired to 
Edinburgh, and joined the College classes, as a liter- 
ary student, where he soon destinguished himself, and 
obtained influential patrons by his superior abilities 
and good conduct alone. And after displaying a noble 
example of self-reliance and self-sustaining exertion, 
he graduated as a physician in his twenty fourth year. 
We shall hare occasion to return to the story of the 
"wee herd laddie 5 ' again. 



MEMOIK OF THE AUTHOR. XXXI 

A not her of the most esteemed of the Poet's early 
acquaintances, whom a congeniality of tastes and sim- 
ilarity of disposition brought much into his company, 
was Mr Samuel Richardson, at that time Schoolmaster 
of Corrie Free School. In speaking of him we shall 
use the Poet's own words, as nearly as we can recollect. 
It may seem the language of friendship, but we be- 
lieve it to be also the language of truth. Mr Richard- 
son was a young man ardently devoted to literature, 
unwearied in his application to study, of superior a- 
bilities and high attainments. His passion for uni- 
versal knowledge alone prevented him from rising to 
the highest eminence in any one department of learn- 
ing ; there was no branch of literature, which he did 
not study ; no science at which he did not grasp. As 
a teacher, he was no less successful, than persevering 
as a student ; and his pleasing manners, and kind, 
amiable, and gentle disposition gained him all hearts. 
His school soon became crowded, and he filled his 
pupils with his own enthusiasm. Young men pre- 
paring for College were sent from distant parts of the 
country to attend his classes ; and of his pupils not a 
few distinguished themselves in after life. Of these 
we have room to mention only the late Robert 
Mitchell, A, M., of the Edinburgh Academy, an inti- 
mate friend of the Poet's, and a most accomplished 
scholar; who, had he lived, might have filled a Pro- 
fessor's chair. Many of these young men became no 
less attached to .the Poet, than their teacher ; fre- 



XXX11 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, 

quented much his house ; read to him when he was 
at work, or listened to his entertaining conversation. 
His enthusiasm for literature, and the hopeful and 
brilliant pictures which his vivid imagination was 
wont to draw of the honours and laurels which await 
successful merit, perseverance, and well directed 
talent could not fail to have the most animating and 
inspiring influence upon young minds. Mr Richard- 
son was an exact and thorough scholar, and the Poet, 
who was then in the vigour of life, must have greatly 
profited by his long and familiar intercourse with 
him, Tli e Bard of Corrie, like the Cumaean Sibyl 
of old, frequently wrote his verses on loose leaves; 
and as frequently they were not written at all. Mr 
Richardson took the trouble of collecting and tran- 
scribing them. To what extent they were indebted 
to his corrections, we have not ascertained ; but we 
have heard the author himself say, that without his 
kind services they never would have appeared in the 
form of a volume. Mr Richardson's merit and at- 
tainments, to which he owes every thing, were of too 
high an order to allow him to remain very long in 
Corrie. After finishing his literary studies, he dir- 
ected his attention to Theology ; and he has been 
long the respected Minister of Penninghame, in Gal- 
loway: On being informed of the object sought to 
be attained, in the issuing of the present edition of 
the poems of his old friend, the Poet of Corrie, he 
kindly and obligingly supplied us with the following 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XXXlll 



interesting sketch of the author, at the period when 
he had frequent and familiar intercourse with him. 

"From 1802 to 1809," says Mr Richardson, "I saw 
him very often. During that time his desire for read- 
ing, and acquiring information, was earnest and in- 
cessant. He not only read, but digested what he did 
read. He had a good memory and a good judgement ; 
both greatly improved by exercise. The extent of his 
reading was incredible, considering his circumstances ; 
for he wrought regularly at his trade of a shoemaker, 
for the support of his family. He must have taken, 
for reading, many an hour that ought to have been 
devoted to sleep. He was always pursuing some ob- 
ject ; and when any person came in, who had the least 
desire to read, or, whether or not, if he did not positi- 
vely decline, a book was put into his hand, and the 
Poet wrought, while his visiter read. When a man 
came to get his shoes mended, the event was import- 
ant ; the shoes were mended certainly, but on the 
condition, that the wearer should read during the pro- 
gress of the work. When nobody was reading, for 
readers were not always forthcoming, the Poet fixed 
in his memory, and considered the statements and 
views of the author to whose writings his mind had 
been particularly directed. He thus made himself 
very much master of the sentiments of the writers 
whose works he perused ; and referred to them, of 
quoted from then), with much ease and readiness, His 
reading extended particularly to history, poetry, the 



XXXI V MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

biographies of eminent men and criticism. He read 
also many of the leading works of imagination, and of 
both Scotch and English Divines. He had a remark- 
able turn for finding out, and procuring good stand- 
ard books ; his own means allowing him to purchase 
very few. He became rather extensively known, and 
every person who did know him, was willing and 
happy to lend him any book, I never knew him fail 
in finding out a book that he wished to see, and pro- 
curing a perusal of it. He obtained the old Poets, 
from Chaucer downwards, and other valuable works, 
from a library at Hawick ; and he borrowed many 
volumes from a considerable distance. I may mention 
as a proof of his ardent desire to obtain information, 
that when the first number of the Edinburgh Review 
was published, a copy of it came to Baukshill for being 
leut out, and he, with a friend, went there on the day 
of its arrival. They began in the evening, and read- 
ing alternately the whole night, they finished the vol- 
ume, at an advanced period in the morniug. In writ- 
ing verses he had much facility, when he had consider- 
ed the subject and arranged his thoughts on it. He 
wrote many fugative pieces, and when any of them 
fell aside for a time, he was more disposed to write a- 
tiew, than to correct and improve. Sometimes he 
trusted too much to his memory without writing his 
thoughts, when they had been expressed by him in 
rerse. He obseived candidly, and marked the charac- 
ters and doings of those around him ; but without 



MEMOIU OF THE AUTHOK- XXXV 

feelings of ill nature or peevishness. He liked always 
to notice the excellencies, or good deeds, of any person, 
leaving the opposite qualities in the back ground. 
He vvas by no means without humour, but his hum- 
our was thoroughly good natured ; and he always a- 
voided indulging in it, when there was the least tend- 
ency of giving offence, He excited no bad feelings 
by his poetry; when he referred to individuals, it was 
to say something in their praise ; — to express his own 
good opinion, or the good opinion of the community, 
or both. He was very susceptible of sympathy with 
those in distress ; and was naturally disposed to ex- 
press their sorrows, or suggest sentiments of consol- 
ation, with much unaffected tenderness and depth of 
feeling. The Poet of Corrie was a man of exemplary, 
amiable character ; and of great warmth of friendship, 
He would have submitted to any inconvenience, any 
labour, to serve a friend. He cherished a firm belief 
in the records of Inspiration. His religion was a vital, 
efficient princ'ple. He regarded with deep vener- 
ation the doctrines and precepts of divine Truth : any 
tendency to infidelity, or scoffing at sacred things, was 
most offensive to him. He was a sincere member of 
the Church of Scotland but devoid of all bigoted, or 
uncharitable feelings to any person, or to any party. 
Benovelence was the leading feature of his character/' 
The justness and truthfulness of Mr Richardson's 
remarks will be readily recognised by all who had any 
acquaintance with the subject of our memoir. With 



XXX VI MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

him benovelenc was not a prominent feeling, but a 
mastering passion. In the words of the Hermit; 

u To the houseless child of want 

My door is open still," 

lie would welcome the poor wandering mendicant to 
the comforts of his fire-side; and then set about de- 
vising something for his well being. We remember 
well being once much astonished at meeting the Poet, 
when a very old man, toiling along the road, with his 
hat in his hand, under the weight of a huge pack ; 
aud stumping after him, at a respectful distance, was 
a man with a wooden leg. We had, however, from 
himself a full explanation of the phenomenon. The 
man was an old soldier who had lost his limb in the 
service of his country. On his return home he had, for 
some time, wandered about as a beggar, and in that 
character first visited the Poet ; who, by his advice 
and assistance, had got him set up in business as a 
basketman. By economy and good management, 
the basketman had become the owner of a valuable 
pack ; and the Poet was so delighted with his good 
conduct and success in trade, that, in order to en- 
courage him, and still help him a little farther on in 
the world, he had taken the pack on his own should- 
ers ; for the poor man, as he observed, did not walk 
very firmly with his wooden leg, and a heavy weight 
on his back. 

Our author continued to work at his trade until 
well advanced in life, and most of his children had 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XXXV11 

reached maturity, when he obtained a few acres of 
land, with a cottage, at an easy rent, on the Earl of 
Hopetoun's estate in Corrie. As his health had suffer- 
ed from frequent attacks of asthma, to which he was 
subject, his business, as a shoemaker, was now discon- 
tinued, and he removed to his new residence at Sheep- 
knowes, where he spent the last thirty years of his 
life. He had now, however, found a friend in a quar- 
ter from which the services of friendship can be receiv- 
ed with pride and pleasure. His eldest son, John, on 
whom he had bestowed a good education, was placed 
when young, in the office of the late Mr Stewart of 
Hillside, Factor on the Earl of Hopetoun's Annandale 
estates, (now in possession of his grandson, J. J. Hope 
Johnstone, Esq., M. P.) Mr Stewart was long well 
known as the leading promoter of agricultural and local 
improvements in that district ; and not less for his 
honourable character and private worth. Young John- 
stone possessed good abilities, was an excellent account- 
ant, active and persevering in business, of gentleman- 
ly manners, and thoroughly trustworthy. His ser- 
vices became valuable to Mr Stewart, who allowed him 
a competent salary in return. He was, at the same 
time, a kind, affectionate, and dutiful son, and willing- 
ly devoted a part of his income to add to the comfort 
of his father's family ; a practice which he regarded 
as a sacred duty, and never discontinued as long as 
he lived. With such a master, young Johnstone could 
not fail to acquire a thorough acquaintance with the 



XX XVI 11 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

business of a land-factor, and a young man of so much 
merit and of such kind and honourable feelings well 
deserved to rise in the world. Advancement accord- 
ingly awaited him. Providence raised up for him a 
powerful and influential friend ? whose friendship he 
obtained on account of his good old father, to whom 
he had shown himself so kind and affectionate a son. 
That friend was no other than the "wee he t J laddie," 
who in days long gone past had beeu so frequent a 
visiter in his father's house • and who, as we have seen, 
had nobly fought his way to a physician's deploma. 
He had subsequently joined the army in their Penin- 
sular campaigns, — had gone through most of the long 
French war,-— had been present at the battle of 
Waterloo, of which he had written an account by order 
of the Duke of Clarence (afterwards William IV); to 
whom he had become domestic physician ; and with 
whose friendship, and even intimacy, he was now 
honoured. And notwithstanding his busy and harass- 
ing life, his active mind had never rested, and his 
able pen had never been idle. By his exertions he 
had originated and succeeded in establishing a 
College ;* and mainly by his unwearied exertions had 
been effected the reformed economy of lunatic 
Asylums, and improved treatment of their inmates, — 
an immense boon conferred on suffering humanity. 
He had written the "History of House of Guelph," 
and the (< Annals of the House of Hanover"; and as 
*"The King's College, 1 ' London. 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. XXXIX 

an acknowledgment of his merit and worth, he had 
been Knighted by George IV. as Sir Andrew Halliday. 
The "wee herd laddie" was now the associate of nobles 
and princes ; he was honoured with the acquaintance 
of crowned heads and the most illustrious personages 
both at home and abroad. His influence, consequent* 
ly, became great ; and nobly he exercised it in be- 
friending the friendless, and availing himself of every 
opportunity of doing good. High and proud though 
the position was to which he had attained, he forgot 
not any of his early associates, however humble. The 
Poet of Corrie he still ranked among the most esteem,, 
ed of his early friends, and he was anxious to confer 
upon him some substantial mark of his friendship. In 
this wish he was at length gratified, by having an op- 
portunity of recommending the Poet's son, John, to 
the Earl of Glasgow, as a Factor for his estates. On 
obtaining this appointment, Mr Johnstone had the 
management of extensive business transactions, — a 
position to which he was every way adequate, — and 
was consequently liberally remunerated by the noble., 
man, on whose estates he w r as employed. One of the 
highest pleasures, however, which his large accession 
of income afforded him, was, that it gave him the 
means of placing his father in easy independence and 
decent comfort suited to the good man's tastes and 
habits. The Poet had, therefore, the high gratifi- 
cation of being able to rest comfortably from the toils 
of his laborious employment, and the harassing anxu 



xl 3JEM0IR OF THE AUTHOR, 

eties of limited enough means, through the kind ser- 
vices of a friend whom he lored, and the dutiful 
affection of a son, in whose good fortune he partici- 
pated. He had now abundant lie sure to enjoy his 
favourite authors and such literary society as were 
within his reach ; and notwithstanding the retired ,aud 
rural situation, in which he resided, not a few learn- 
ed and ingenious men vistied his house, or honoured 
him with their friendship. With the Rev. Dr Wight- 
man of Kirkmahoe, the Rev. Mr Little, Tundergarth, 
and a number of other clergymen, he had long lived 
on the most familiar terms. He had the friendly no- 
tice of Principal Baird, the Rev. Edward Irving, and 
even the eminent writer, Mr Thomas Carlyle, did not 
decline spending a few hours of familiar, friendly con- 
versation with the venerable rustic Bard. By his 
good, kind neighbours, the late Mr Stewart of Gillen- 
bie and his excellent Lady, he was always treated 
with much respect and attention ; and they were 
often enabled to gratify him with some new or rare 
work, which he could not otherwise have procured. 
At the social anniversary meetings of the neighbour- 
ing gentlemen and farmers held in honour of Mr 
Johnstone of Annandale's birth-day — on which oc- 
casions Mr Stewart frequently presided, — the Bard 
of Corrie occupied among them his place of hononr, 
as the Poet Laureate of the Clan, who supplied the 
annual birth -day ode. He had also a warm and con- 
genial friend in Mr Graham of Burnswark, a native 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. Xli 

of Corrie ; who by his energy, mercantile skill, and 
ability had risen from small beginings to be the pos- 
sessor, at one time, of a lordly fortune:: among all 
her favourite sons, Corrie could boast of none more 
interested in her prosperity, or who possessed a more 
manly and genial nature, or a kinder aud warmer 
heart. Few of them have seen such variety of life and 
fortune, as has been experienced by the ingenious and 
venerated "Hermit of Burnswark," the honoured 
friend of Carlyle, Irving, and the Bard of his native 
vale. Long may he enjoy the peaceful Sabbath of 
his years, in his much loved, classic retreat. 

The Poet of Corrie had seen, during his long life, 
many of his friends and acquaintances rise to wealth 
and eminence, by few of whom was he ever forgotten ; 
and no one could rejoice more sincerely in their suc- 
cess and prosperity. But there was none of them all, 
whose rise and progress he had watched with such 
deep interest; none whose merit and worth had been 
crowned with such eminent distinction ; none whose 
good fortune had so greatly benefitted himself, as his 
honoured friend, Sir Andrew Halliday's. Forty 
years had now rolled away since Sir Andrew had parted 
from him, an humble, unbefriended youth ; his only 
resources, his energy and talents ; and hope his only 
treasure. He had since visited many a foreign shore, 
and traversed many a well fought field ; he had been 
long familiar with the pomp of royalty and splendour 
of Courts ; and now he had resolved to revisit "the 



Xlil MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

fields where he once was young/' and enjoy the pleas= 
ure of meeting again with his two old familiar friends, 
the Poet of Corrie and Thomas Johnstone of Penlaw, 
both fast approaching the sun-set of life. The Poet's 
domiciliary comforts had much improved since the 
time, when "clogs and curries ship-like sailed" on his 
inundated floor, till "the sooty waters" thought fit to 
retire "through some rattan-houkit hole ;" but his 
accommodation was not quite of the description usual- 
ly expected for the suitable reception of a "belted 
Knight." The good old man seemed to possess a 
sort of pride and pleasure in retaining much of the 
style and manner of living which had prevailed in his 
youth ; and nothing could be more picturesque than 
to see him in his easy chair, with a portly volume in 
hand ; a "Kilmarnock bell" surmounting his vener- 
able white head ; the spectacles on nose imparting a 
peculiar expression to his intellectual and benovelent 
countenance. There beside him lay a couple of fine, 
full grown pet lambs, in the most familiar proximity ; 
while the gallant cock might be seen making his dig- 
nified ingress "stoutly struting his dames before"; and 
round a corner little piggie would modestly advance 
his long snout and turn up the side of his face with a 
sly glance at the "happy family," as much as to en- 
quire, if any more company could be admitted to the 
party. Like Sir W. Scott, every living thing seemed 
to love and venerate the Bard of Corrie and to have 
pleasure in being near him ; and he had not the heart 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xKtl 

to drive them away rudely, As Sir Andrew had not 
announced bis visit, he found his aged friend in alt 
his primitive simplicty of equipment; which, indeed, 
rendered the interview so much the more interesting: 
Sir Andrew, without ceremony, as of old, set himself 
down beside him, and partook with him of his home- 
ly fare ; and they talked together of the scenes and 
doings of other days — grew young again in imagin- 
ation and feeling — the intervening space of forty years 
disappeared, and the honoured Knight seemed to 
have forgotten that he had ever worn the order of the 
Guelph; and the worthy old Poet rejoiced in him only 
as one of nature's noblemen. The happiness of that 
memorable meeting was such as only the richest and 
rarest feasts of friendship can supply. The reception 
of Sir Andrew, by his old friend, Thomas of Penlaw, 
was not less homely ; nor was the interview less cor- 
dial and gratifying on both sides. There was return- 
ed, after forty years, the identical curly haired, comi- 
cal, eccentric little boy, who had herded the cattle, 
when Thomas had cattle to herd, and had been carri- 
ed to bed by the good old man who had long since 
gone to his rest, — the identical youth who had so often 
wrought with Thomas in the same fields, sat with 
him at the same table, slept with him in the same bed, 
and joined with him in the same evening and morn- 
ing devotions ;— there he stood, a veritable Knight 
of the Order of the Guelph, loaded with honours 
literary, civic, and courtly ; and vet he was the same 



xliv MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

droll, laughing, happy, kind, lovable, warm hearted 
good natured, honest Andrew, that he was in days 
long gone by. Who could doubt that Thomas spoke 
in the sincerity of his honest heart when he said, 
that a visit from his Majesty, William IV., could 
not have afforded him half so much pleasure. And 
what was the nature of their discourse ? Why, they 
had their joke and their laugh, as they used to have 
long ago ; and then they talked in earnest, as it be- 
comes grave and aged men to do ; and Sir Andrew 
unreservedly imparted to his old friend the true secret 
of his remarkable success in life. And what was 
that, Reader ? surely that were worth the knowing 
and remembering. It was the solemn and earnest 
evening and morning prayers of that "venerable old 
saint," John Johnstone of Penlaw, to which he ascrib- 
ed all the honours and distinctions of his brilliant 
career. It was from him he had received those prin- 
ciples and abiding religious impressions, which had 
guided his course through life ; which had afforded 
him more real pleasure, than the smiles and favours 
of princes ; and which could confer upon him more 
enduring honours than they had to bestow. Here, 
too, was revealed the secret of Sir Andrew's unweari- 
ed philanthropy, labours, and exertions for the well 
being of others ; and that amid all his honours and 
preferments, he still remained "simplicity's devoted 
child,"— -he was an earnest Christian. 

This destinguished and honoured philanthropist, 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xK" 

historian, antequarian, physician, and pious Christian 
died in 1840, at the age of 58, deeply and universally 
lamented. 

The Bard of Corrie lived to mourn the death of his 
eminent and cherished friend. At the age of eighty, he 
once more strung his harp to notes of woe, and gave 
to the public that fine, truthful, and affectionate tri- 
bute to Sir Andrew's memory, found in this volume, 

"The offspring of his hoary years, 
And almost said or sung in tears." 

Our Author survived till 1849, having reached his 
eighty eighth year ; when the time worn tenament at 
length gave way under the accumulating infirmities 
of old age. He met his last change with Christian, 
fortitude and resignation, supported by the faith and 
hope which had actuated his conduct through life ; and 
in him the truth of the poet's words were beautifully 
exemplified ; "The last end of the good man is peace." 

In person, our Author was above the middle size, 
and not ungraceful in form ; the effects of his em- 
ployment caused him to stoop a little in his old age, 
In his youth he possesssd considerable strength and 
agility, and was not inexpert at athletic exercises, 
in which the young men of Corrie, at that period, 
took great pride in excelling. His countenance was 
indicative of intelligence, serenity of temper, and 
kindlines of disposition : when engaged in conver- 
sation, in which he felt interested, his features be- 
came exceedingly animated ; his eye was mild but 



xlvi MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

lively and not inexpressive of jocose humour, in which 
he sometimes indulged. His manners were plain and 
unaffected, but without vulgarity ; he was always 
anxious to accommodate and make every person near 
him pleased and happy. His modesty was excessive 
and often prevented him from taking the place due 
to his merits. In some of the more prominent -feat- 
ures of his character, the Poet of Corrie is not inap- 
propriately represented in the following beautiful 
verses of the Bard of Kirtle ;* (for our Border streams 
How musical with the melody of harmonious numbers.) 

He sang of the joys of peasant men, 

Of the loves of peasant maids, 
Till his songs grew voices in the glen, 

And the music of the glades. 
Fame was the meed of the peasant bard, 

The praise of the wise and strong ; 
And the pure heart's love — the true reward 

Of the gifted son of song. 

Then his soul grew glad in beauty's light* 

And melted in love's soft fire ; 
But these enthralled not his spirit of might, 

For that was wed to his lyre. 

*R. W. Thom, author of "The Epochs," a poem of remark- 
able power and originality ; and other poems. Thorn, 
though praised by Jeffrey as "a man of real genius;" and 
admired by Word>worth 5 La nofi jet obtained the place due 
to his merit as a poet. 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xlvii 

He laughed in scorn at the light that flows 
From the wreathed and sparkling bowl — 

His song was bright with the fire that glows 
Deep in the heaven-born soul. 

He looked on lofty lords of the soii> 

In pomp of a transient show, 
He looked on the careworn sons of toil 

In gloom of a transient woe ; 
And he loved them with an equal love. 

The low and the lofty one, 
For both are loved by the Power above, 

Who kindled the rolling sun. 

Little he recked for the might of a name, 

For rank by monarchs given ; 
He knew that the True are heirs of fame. 

The Brave are named in heaven. 
He knew that he is a king indeed, 

Whose spirit rides forth in song ; 
Who lends not his glorious verse to speed 

The lies of a venal throng. 

At the king of terror smiled he, 

At the phantom monarch grim ; 
For he knew that the angel of death Would be 

Al. angel of peace to him 



^ilviii MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

lie died in the cot where erst he sung 

And rich has been his reward. 
Prayers from the old, and smiles from the young; 

The meed of the Hero Bard. 

Our Author, who had lived through the greater part 
of a century of the world's history, had witnessed 
many social changes and alterations in the state of 
the country, and nowhere more than in his own 
native place. The impolitic, anti-social, and anti- 
scriptural procedure of "laying field to field" and 
farm to farm, till no place is left for the small capital- 
ist, — which has driven so many of our rural popul- 
ation into large cities, or to the colonies, — found its 
way into Corrie also. The virtuous, happy, and in- 
dustrous class of working farmers, with their families, 
have disappeared ; a gentleman-farmer class, with 
their serfdom, have taken their place ; a broad line of 
demarkation has been drawn between the employers 
and the employed ; the self-respect and independent 
spirit of the industrious classes have, in a great meas- 
ure, passed away ; and pauperism and parish charity 
have become familiar terms among them. The only 
reasonable hope now, of the working man ever attain- 
ing to a decent competency for old age, is the col- 
onies ; to which many have already gone, and many 
more must follow. Thus the wise and patriotic policy 
of the brave old Border Barons, — who knew the worth 
of a stout heart and a strong arm, and covered their 



MEMOIR OF T&E AUTHOR. xlfx 

estates with a hardy, robust, intrepid, and laborious 
class of men "good at need/* — has been entirely re- 
versed and uprooted, by the patrons of sleek steers, 
tile-draining, and the improved breeds of sheep. 

We have left ourselves little room to advert at 
much length, to the merits of our Author, as a poet. 
His volume of poems, which appeared in 1820, was 
given to the public more in accordance with the 
wishes, and at the solicitation, of friends, who were an- 
xious to possess a tangible and permanent memorial of 
the Author's genius, than from any great desire, on his 
part, of poetic fame. Indeed his reputation, as a poet, 
acquired by his occasional pieces, stood much higher 
before, than after the publication of his volume. 
Most of his published poems, with the exception xA 
his Elegies, were written at an early period of life, 
before Scott, Byron, Campbell, Moore, and other of 
our popular modern poets had appeared as authors ; 
he consequently owes them nothing. He had form- 
ed his taste and modelled his style upon the poetry 
of the last century, to which his verses bear a close 
resemblance; and in harmony of versification, chaste- 
ness and elegance of diction, in many of his pieces, 
he follows his masters with no "unequal steps." His 
verses to ''The Evening Star"; his "Evening walk 
on the Banks of Corrie" ; his address "To an old 
Soldier'' ; his Elegies on The Earl of Hopetoun and 
his daughter Lady Ann, show that he had an ear well 
attuned to the melody of poetic numbers, and could 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

select with taste and effect his diction and images. His 
fk Jamie and Mary" ; his "Pastoral Elegy," and verses, 
"Haste let Sorrow's harp be strung," might have been 
written by Shenstonc ; and his verses, "The dew 
hang glistening on the thorn/' would not have done 
discredit to Burns, His humorous pieces were the 
earliest effort of his muse ; they bear more re- 
semblance to the poetry of Allan Ramsay than to that 
of Burns. They are, however, not without consider- 
able merit ; exhibiting a copious vein of "pawky" 
Scotch humour and wit. He is remarkably success- 
ful in his description of the omens which presaged the 
"dreadful day", that took the "Dear-Meal Monger" 
from his exorbitant gains, and his "meal sacks i' 
the spence." The whole is in excellent keeping with 
the superstitious notions and feelings that prevailed, 
in the Border districts, at the period the poem 
was written. His poems, however, can only be 
taken as an index of his talents. — an evidence of 
what he might have accomplished under other cir- 
cumstances. They are the productions of a man who 
had directed his attention to poetry rather as an oc- 
casional amusement, than as the business of his life. 



INTRODUCTION. 



The Author of these humble strains 
Was born 'mong Scotia's humble swains ; 
His sires may still his reverence claim, 
Not for their wealth, but spotless fame ; 
They virtue's path would oft pourtray, 
While listening on their knees he lay ; 
And Memory's tablet still records 
Their prayers, their sighs, and melting words. 
But ah ! in youth's gay sporting reign, 
Fell servitude prepared her chain ; 
And now with naked feet and sore, 
He treads the plains and heath- clad moor, 
Bears scorching heat, and shivering cold, 
Till many an year had o'er him roll'd. 

But though from place to place still driven, 
Some dear delights were always given ; — 
He joyed to hear the sky-lark sing, 
And hail the firstling flowers of spring ; 
The wide expanse of heaven to view, 
And lofty mountains robed in blue ; 

A 



Or ocean's distant fury gleam, 

Reflecting Sol's meridian beam, 

Or scowling cloud, with seeming ire, 

Pour down its liquid floods of fire ; 

Or loiter by some flower-fringed brook,— 

Sweet pictured page in nature's book ! 

But now the fates a change ordain — 
Adieu the daisy covered plain ! 
Through hazel copse, or hawthorn glens, 
No more with ardent steps he bends : 
Among the cooped-up sons of trade 
His after path of life was led, 
; Mongst these he wrought from youth till now, 
With horn-hard hands, and sweat-run brow ; 
In evening walks and leisure hours, 
His haunts were still the Muses' bowers ; 
Amidst his toils, sweet went the time, 
Whilst silent oft he formed the rhyme ; 
His audience still the village swains, 
Whose plaudits more than paid his pains ; 
But ne'er dream'd he they'd find their way 
To lordly halls and ladies gay. 

But ah ! to few the art is given, 
To strike th ? immortal harp of heaven,- 
To soothe or agitate the soul, 
And o'er it bold supreme control : 



But when the sun has left the sky, 
The evening star attracts the eye ; 
And when the thrush no more we hear, 
The linnet then may charm our ear. 

But praise or blame, whate'er my fate, 
They come alike — they come too late. 

My day of life no more shines strong, 
The vales seem dark — the shado vs long; 
A gloomy pall's o'er nature cast, 
The grave's long night is gathering fast, 
All objects round this warning send — 
-'Remember most thv later end !" 



POEMS. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 

Thou little gem of burnished gold 
That gild'st, at eve the western sky, 

In many a poet's page enroll'd, 
And dear to every lover's eye! 

At thy approach hard toil is o'er, 
And Labour's weary children blest ; 

The stern command is heard no more, 
And all is revelry — or rest. 

Beneath thy mild benignant beams, 
In musing mood, I love to stray, 

While Fancy forms her fairy dreams, 
Along some streamlet's winding wa\ 



6 



My Anna soon will grace my side ; 

Sweet Star! thou wast the signal given; 
One hour in such discourse shall glide, 

As sainted souls may hold in heaven. 

Ye humid dews, O cease to fall ! 

And chilling blasts to sweep the glade, 
Nor, Night, unfurl thy pitchy pall, 

Till once I meet my favourite maid. 

From odour-breathing shrub and tree, 
Let zephyrs bear their sweets along; 

And all ye woodland minstrelsy, 

Pour forth your little souls in song. 

And still appear, thou western sky, 
Dressed in the golden vest of eve ; 

And beam, sweet Star ! on Anna's eye, 
A mirror pure as crystal wave. 

For sure there is a heaven on earth, 
Which Virtue's hallowed children share, 

When all the immortals issue forth 
Beneath thy ray, refulgent Star. 

And when the tear of pity rolls, 

From themes of friendship and of love, 

Dost not some angel touch our souls 
With sparks etherial from above? 



When rising from this scene of woe, 
Our souls their rapid wings expand, 

Heaven guides the wanderers as they go, 
And leads them to a better land. 

Beyond yon star-bestudded frame, 

Unreached by time's still ebbing wave, 

Oh ! raise our souls, thou Power sublime ! 
While shines the lovely star of eve* 



ON THE EARLY DAYS AND DEATH 

OP 

SIR ANDREW HALLIDAY, K. G., &c. 

And hast thou left this earthly scene, 
And art as thou had'st never been, 
Who felt the patriot's warmest glow, 
For thee a nation's tears may flow. 
For thee, whose philanthropic soul 
No base return could e'er control, 



8 



Devising still some noble plan, 

To mitigate the woes of man ; 

And still practising that blest power; 

That soothes in sickness' weary hour. 

And make the pallid cheek of woe, 

Again with rosy health to glow. 

Too soon for us thy race is run,, 

Too soon thy crown of glory won ; 

I knew thee in thy early days, 

While yet unblest with science' rays, 

Long ere thy embryo worth was known , 

Or yet thy star of genius shone. 

I knew thee when a shepherd boy, 

A stranger then to ease and joy : 

When Mutton's wastes by thee were cross'd, 

Mid pelting snows and biting frost. 

Who would have thought such toil-worn swain, 

Should ever rank and influence gain ; 

Should soar aloft ou science' wings, 

Be sought to w r atch the health of Kings. 

That one so humbly bred, I ween, 

At Britain's splendid court be seen, 

In friendship with the rich and grand, 

A titled noble of the land ; 

From state so low, to rise so high, 

Might strike e'en admiration's eye. 

Yet while thou wast a stripling green, 

Some indications might be seen — 



9 



However time might them unfold— 

Thy heart was cast in heavenly mould. 

Thy morn of life, though dull and grey, 

Gave pledge of a resplendent day ; 

The seed was sown, the plants appeared, 

That future years so nobly reared. 

A heart devout to thee was given, 

That early laid up stores in heaven, 

That felt the joys and griefs of others, 

And hailed mankind as friends and brothers. 

Could I thy various works rehearse, 

Oh I how they would adorn my verse : 

So faithful always to thy trust, 

So gentle, generous, and so just ; 

So prompt the weak thy aid to lend, 

And to the friendless prove a friend ; 

When fortune's smiles seemed at thy will, 

It only made thee humbler still ; 

As bounteous heaven increased thy store, 

Still, still thou gavest away the more, 

And all thy influence in the main, 

Was less thine own than others' gain. 

No haughty look, no sullen mien, 

In thy deportment e'er was seen, 

But always humble, sweet, and mild, 

Simplicity's devoted child ; 

'Twas thy great honour and thy praise. 

Thy country's friendles youth to raise 



10 



So great thy power, preferment's key, 

Long seemed conferred alone on thee ; 

But how it grieved thy guileless heart, 

To witness here a worthless part. 

Diversified thy life hast been, 

In what thou'st acted, known and seen, 

Thine honoured pen alone could trace, 

The annals of our reigning race ; 

And from oblivion bring each name, 

And hold it up once more to fame. 

What foreign shores hast thou not trode — 

What fields of battle and of blood — 

lu Europe and in Indian climes, 

In perilous places oft and times, 

How long at court didst thou reside, 

With sovereign power and princely pride, 

Where blessings flow without control, 

To feast the senses and the soul ? 

From all these scenes thou hied'st away, 

Thy native land still bore the sway ; 

In it, ere life's short day should close, 

To taste the blessings of repose. 

Thy friends, enraptured, hailed thee home. 

They marked not then thy yawning tomb, 

Nor dreamed so soon the award of fate 

Would call thee to a future state. 

Oh ! what avail'd thy healing art, 

It could not length of days impart ; 



11 



Nor yet the Asylum's peace and rest, 
Prolong in life its noble guest. 
Thy task is done, thy warfare past, 
Thy earthly frame hath breathed its last ; 
And thy freed soul has winged its flight 
Away to realms of love and light : 
Some angel sure would be thy guide, 
And place thee close by Howard's side. 
Forgive, blest shade, these feeble lays, 
A vain attempt thy fame to raise ; 
The offering of my hoary years, 
And almost said or sung in tears. 



ON THE DEATH OF JOHN THOMSON, 

WHO DIED AT PENLAW. 

John Thomson was a lovely youth, 

Could I his likeness show ; 
His cheeks were like the new-blown rose, 

His skin was like th* snow. 



12 

A face so fair, a shape so tine, 
Such willingness to please, 

Seem'd never formed for servile toils, 
But honour, wealth, and ease. 

But, ah ! the fates had doom'd his lot 
'Mongst labour's lowly train, 

Contentment beaming from his brow 
Show'd labour was no pain. 

He left his native place for us, 
Though distant many a mile, 

Where'er he went, the generous good 
Still hail'd him with a smile. 

'Tis told, he had a favourite maid, 
All sweetness, love, and truth, 

But death untimely interposed 
To blast the hopes of youth. 

When lying on his bed of death, 
When none to aid was near, 

He dreamed an angel, from above, 
Was sent his soul to cheer. 

So soft and silvery was the sound, 
And every word so sweet ; 

Forgive the Muse that vainly tries 
The language to repeat. 



13 

"Give up thy fond attachments liere^ 
No earth-born maid's for thee. 

Burst every tie/' the angel said, 
"And haste ! and come with me. 

"Rejoice, life's warfare now is past, 
Discharg'd even in thy prime, 

At once to leave a stormy world. 
For Heaven's more genial clime. 

"No more thy ploughshare turns the gle 
Nor sounds at morn thy flail, 

No more exhaustion wastes thy frame, 
Till strength and action fail. 

"Early to rise and late to rest, 

The bread of toil to win, 
To these at last thou bid'st adieu, 

And all below the sun. 

"I'll bear thee soon above the stars 
That gilds the gloom of night, 

And land thee on that better world, 
Where all is love and light. 

"Thy residence, the bowers of bliss, 

That green for ever grow, 
Where summer suns unsetting shine, 

And living waters flow, 



14 

1 'Disease, nor pain, nor death itself, 

Tormenters of your race, 
Nor fiend of darkness shall entrance find 

Into that hallowed place. 

"I'll strip thee of all nature's garb, 

And sin's oppressive load, 
And clothe thee with a costly robe, 

That purchased was with blood. 

"Put on thy head a glorious crown, 
Which time shall not destroy, 

And put a new song in thy mouth 
Of triumph and of joy. 

"Think not, my son, thou art disgraced, 

In stable bed to die, 
Such was thy Saviour's first on earth, 

Wealth would none else supply. 

"From this they'll bear thy clay-cold frame, 
'Mong stranger's dust thee lay, 

But I'll come back and raise thee up, 
At time's concluding day. 

Such were the strains the angel breathed, 

On Thomson's dreaming ear, 
It cheered him on his frosty bed, 

And residence so drear, 



15 



And still approaching him more near, 
No further warning given, 

Gave him the kiss that stole his soul, 
And bore it straight to Heaven, 



AN ADDRESS TO READING. 

Hail! sweetest charmer of my soul 
Even when a stripling green ! 

Nor hath a rival gained thy power 
Which riper years have seen. 

No flowery bank, nor vocal grove, 
No sweetly murmuring rill, 

Nor nature's charms, combined, my soul 
With greater raptures fill. 

For thee I sighed for hours of rest, 
And shunned the sportive throng, 

To taste thy more refined delights 
The silent shades among. 



16 



For thee, through night's dark lonely hours, 

Oft have I vigils kept, 
To follow some wild winding tale, 

While others senseless slept. 

For thee I poured contempt on wealth, 

Its pomp, its pride, and ease ; 
No rich repast, or vestment gay, 

Could e'er my soul so please. 

For thee I spurned the noisy crowd, 
And quaffed the sparkling bowl, 

Yea, Beauty's self could ne'er entice 
My heart from thy control. 

For what, compared with mind, are all 
The maddening joys of sense ? — 

As poisonous, noxious herbs, to sweets 
Which morning joys dispense. 

Full oft thou tak'st me by the hand, 
And, placed by thee on high, 

The present busy bustling scene, 
Comes bustling on my eye. 

Even heavy Time, at thy command, 

Brings his past deeds to view, 
Whilst mould'ring myriads spring to life, 

And act their parts anew. 



17 



By thee the heaven-inspired bards 
Their magic numbers roll ; 

When lo ! the powerful passions wake, 
And agitate the soul. 

By thee we sail the ocean through, 
And traverse realms unknown ; 

And Nature's strange mysterious laws 
Are to thy votaries shown. 

And by thy aid, the Word of Truth, 
(Bright sun of mental light !) 

Makes all futurity, unveiled, 
Burst on our ravished sight. 

We sigh not then with bounded views ; 

Our souls enraptured soar 
To where the heirs of glory rest 

When life's short day is o'er. 

? Tis hence thou art the choicest boon 

Bestowed on man below ; 
The source of every hope sublime, 

The balm of every woe. 

The sweetest hours of social bliss 

We owe to thee alone ; 
The tie that binds congenial souls 

That tie is all thine own. 

B 



18 

Without thy aid the haughtiest thane 

Were but a vulgar clown ; 
And by Thee even the lowly poor 

Are raised to high renown. 

So, Reading ! my admiring soul 
Shall hail thy joys sublime, 

Until my spirit wings her way 
Beyond the sphere of time. 



ADDRESS TO A BIRD, 

On hearing it sing in a Storm, at the termination of W inter t 



"When birds instructive lessons teach, 
Should we not hear them when they preach ?" 

Cotton. 



Amidst such elemental strife, 

Sweet warbler ! fear'st not thou thy life ? 

On thee the winds impetuous blow, 

Fraught with heart-chilling sounds of woe ; 

On thee descend the beating rain 

That in dark torrents steep the plain ; 



19 



Yet, perched upon the naked tree, 
Still dost thou sing with mirth and glee. 
Where are thy brother songsters now ? — - 
.All fled the tempest, shaken bough. 
And safe in coverts sit supine, 
While hushed is every note but thine. 
Sweet emblem of the good man here 
Who bears life's ills without a tear, 
And, ever prompt at duty's call, 
No terrors can his heart appal ; 
Even in Misfortune's blackest night, 
His conscience clear his heart is light ; 
And when the vicious vent their sighs, 
His song of joy is heard to rise. 

Sweet bird ! what prompts thy tuneful lay* 
Is it that winter hastes away, 
And dost thou hope returning spring 
To thee shall hours of gladness bring ? 
Yes ! from some saugh or blooming thorn, 
Thou yet shall hail the blushing morn, 
And raise to heaven more ardent notes 
Among a thousand tuneful throats, 
Or seek thy food with gay delight 
Along the fields with daisies white ; 
The little flowers fond to be prest, 
Shall, bending, kiss thy downy breast, 
Or gently sweep thy speckled wing, 



20 



And round thee all their fragrance fling ; 
And oft to 'scape Sol's fervid beam, 
Shalt thou repair to some lone stream. 
And o'er thy half-scorch'd plummage lave; 
In artful showers, the cooling wave ; 
Or to some woodland thicket fly, 
Impervious to the school -boy's eye, 
Then, fluttering, prune each little wing, 
And soar aloft more sweet to sing. 

Thus, as hope paints her fairy forms, 
Thou sing'st amidst the pelting storms, 

Just so, sweet Hope, 'tis thine to cheer 
The good man, while a pilgrim here, 
Thou softenest each bitter blast, 
Till life's short wintry season's past, 
Directing still his longing eye 
Beyond yon azure vaulted sky, 
Where he, secure from care and pain, 
Shall find a spring eternal reign. 



21 



ADDRESS TO A DAISY, 

Seen growing on a Rock in the midst of a Stream, 
On this lone rock, so bleak and bare, 
How could 'st thou spring, sweet flower so fair ? 
No herb on which thy head can lean, 
No bush, thee from the blast to screen, 
No kindred sweet, no neighbouring flower, 
To haste away the tedious hour ; — 
Like some poor outcast orphan child, 
Or some lone hermit in the wild, 
Has nature given to thee an ear, 
The murm'ring of the stream to hear ? 
With gladden'd eye canst thou survey 
Its pebbly bed and winding way ? 
Or didst thou, when an infant seed, 
With pilgrim wing flit o'er the mead, 
Shunning sweet flowers and herbage green, 
To reign here an unrivalled queen, 
Where thou might all thy tints display 
To grace some rural poet's lay ? — 
Thy swelling bosom's vermil hue 
Is studded o'er with gems of due ; 
Thy snowy petlets circular spread, 
Form'd like a halo round thy head, 
First opening, hail the morning light, 
Then shutting., shun the shades of night ; 



22 



Still as the summer breezes blow, 
They bend and toss thee to and fro, 
While round thy rock- encircling stream. 
Thou ceaseless cast a silvery gleam, 
And tastest oft the rapturous bliss, 
Thy shadowy form beneath to kiss • 
To thee oft fly the cooing doves 
To sip the stream and tell their loves, 
And while they vent their souls, they see 
Their purity pourt rayed in thee, 
And when they here their mates espouse, 
They'll call thee witness to their vows. 
But though no foot can on thee tread 
Nor grazing beast is near thee fed, 
And though tho'rt planted on a rock, 
Thou'rt not beyond misfortuue's shock ; 
For ah ! yon sky begins to lower, 
And prone descends the heavy shower, 
And see, down every neighbouring hill, 
Red roaring rolls the new-formed rill ; 
Thy maniac stream its banking tears, 
And down the spoil in triumph bears, 
And see ! how wounded Terra's blood 
Has deeply stained the guilty flood ! 
And hark ! the storm is louder howling, — 
'Tis thy last bell that nature's tolling, 
Aud still the stream is higher swelling, 
Aud now it foaming sweeps thy dwelling. 



23 



To see thy last would give me pain, — 
I'll fly, and moralize my strain. 

This life, in fancy's eye, may seem 
Just like the channel of a stream, 
Where rocks of pleasure, wealth, and power, 
Attract full many a human flower ; 
But ah ! the whelming floods of fate 
Give these too oft a short-lived date ; 
But thine, O Virtue ! thine's the rock 
That still repels misfortune's shock ; 
And still thy lovely flowers shall grow 
Midst summer showers and winter snow, 
And, ever fair, their charms disclose, 
To an admiring world — while those 
That bloom'd in a less hallowed clime, 
Are rotting with the wrecks of Time, 



TO AN OLD SAILOR, 
Haste to my sheltering cot, thou vet'ran old ; 

Keen blows the tempest o'er the snow-clad plaiu 
Thy worn-out frame is quite benumbed with cold > 

And ceaseless wandering cannot long sustain, 

Thy tottering legs two pillars seem of snow, 
And thy rent garb invites th' inclement air ; 

Around thy temples drifting eddies blow, 
And hang like hoar frost on thy silver hair. 



24 

In thine own land thou hast but sorry fared, 
And man's unkindness costs thee many a tear ; 

Sweet sympathy, alas ! thou'st seldom shared — 
Now rest thy frame, for thou shalt share it here. 

For thee, my heart shall burn a brighter blaze ; 

With viands warm, thy drooping heart's be cheer M J 
And thou shalt tell me feats of youthful days, 

When toils fatigued not, nor when dangers fear'd. 

Hast thou not sail'd on ocean's whelming wave ? 

Hast thou not travers'd many a foreign land ? 
Seen thousands fall and fill one common grave, 

Where life was valued as the chaff or sand ? 

Yes ! thy scarr'd face proclaims, in bloody fray, 
'Gainst hostile foes, thou oft hast dauntless stood, 

Heard war's dread thunders — seen her lightnings play 
With gleaming arms, and 'garments roll'd in blood.' 

'Midst these dread scenes, say, didst thou ever see 
A son of Britain from a Frenchman run ? 

From twice their numbers did our armies flee ? 
"No, no," thou criest, "it never yet was done/' 

Blest source of hope, go, publish round and round, 
Tell our young heroes there's no cause of fear, — 

The Gallic squadrons soon shall bite the ground, 
Should they presumptuous dare to face us here. 



25 



ADDRESS TO LAZINESS. 

O thou, wba baith my soul and body 
Hast wankish'd roun' as wi' a woodie ! 
"Wha thro' my frame dost softly creep, 
And lull'st my active powers asleep, 
Till not even pinching hoarse-tongued Want 
Can rouse me wi' her clam'rous cant ; 
Suspend a wee thy potent spell, 
Till I thy wond'rous triumphs tell. — 
My souple purse o' money toom'd, 
My hollow chest, the meal consumed, 
My worn out, torn, and ragged weed, 
And house just tumbling o'er my head ; 
While, thro' the roof the black rain fa's, 
And whistlin' win' soughs thro' the wa's, 
Thus, when the clouds descend in streams* 
My floor a little ocean seems, — 
Where clogs and curries ship-like sail, 
Impell'd, too, by the boisterous gale, 
Till through some rattan -houkit hole 
The sooty waters 'swaging roll. 
The sons of fortune and of thrift, 
Would think my all a worthless gift ; 
They view my hut wi' jeering ee, 
And think how snug they're lodged by me ; 



26 

Yet in this dank and dreary cell, 
Ye Muses, if ye'll deign to dwell, 
I'll be as blyth as birds in wair, 
And sing away my dool and care. 



TO A BIRD PURSUED BY A HAWK, 

Which sought sheltre in the Author's House, and was 
preserved, while its pursuer was destroyed. 

Haste, fancied victim of impending woe, 

Whose beating bosom death's dread terrors chill, 

Haste to my arms, and all thy fears forgo, 
Yon cruel Hawk thy blood shall never spill. 

Audacious wretch ! — and to pursue thee here ! — 
His forfeit life thy sufferings shall repay ; 

Yes ! he shall die without one pitying tear, 

Whilst thou, sweet bird, shalt soar unhurt away. 

Go, tell thy mate, and brothers of thy song, 
Who haply now thy sufferings may deplore, 

Tell them — and (if they exist) thy young, 

That thou art safe — that thy stern foeV no more. 



27 

Go, wander, go — no Hawk shall thee annoy, 
With lighter bosom never hast thou soar'd ; 

I'll hear thy strain of gratitude and joy, 
For dangers 'scaped — for liberty restor'd. 

Such, if great things may be compared with small, 
Shall be the joy of every feeling mind, 

O Corsican ! at thy impending fall, 

Thou bloody hawk ! — thou scourge of human kind, 

Menanced by thee, the tiny nations shrink, 
And bend inglorious 'neath thy stern control ; 

But shall my country e'er so abject sink, 
While Britain owns one genuine British soul ? 

No ! grieve not, swains, to leave the plough and cart, 
Your fathers spurn'd them in war's perlous hour ! 

O learn, like them, to act the hero's part, 
And blast th' abettors of tyrannic power. 



TO CHARITY. 

All hail ! thou fairest grace on earth, 
Whose deeds proclaim thy heavenly birth ; 
To foreign lands now dost thou roam, 
Or weep'st thou still o'er H n's tomb ; 



28 



Or to Britannia's court repair 
To woo each princely bosom there ? 
Oh ! while I tune my votive lay, 
To Fancy's eye thy charms display, 
Or light me with thy warming beam, 
While thy blest labours are thy theme. 

When pilgrim man is doomed below 
To drink the bitter cup of woe, 
No hand but thine can aid impart, 
No voice but thine can sooth the heart; 
Oh, sleep not then, propitious fair, 
When Sorrow's reddest lightnings glare ; — 
Britannia's sky is overcast, 
And dreadful howls the sweeping blast ; 
Now while the clouds are darker lowering, 
And heavier still the torrents pouring, 
Display at once thy sun-bright form — 
Allay, or dissipate the storm. 

'Midst scenes that must thy heart appal, 
And stun thy ear with clam'rous call, 
Remember still the lowly swain, 
That, suffering, oft conceals his pain ; 
Still mark the house all damp and drear, 
Where wintry gloom reigns through the year, 
Through whose light thatch, and chinky wall, 
Chill winds may blow, and black rains fall ; 



29 



Where sickness groans from pain severe, 
Or sorrow sheds her bitterest tear, 
And withering every hope and joy, 
Where nakedness and famine pale 
With infants' wailings load the gale, 
As if the Demon of Distress 
Had bar'd the door 'gainst every bliss ;— 
There let thy angel form be seen, 
With generous heart, and heavenly mien, 
Till death his destined victim claim, 
Or health renew the wasted frame; 
Sprinkle thy healing balm around 
To stay mourner's bleeding wound, 
Till work and wages once again 
Make Happiness resume her reign ; 
And thy reward ~sh all be the tear, 
Of gratitude, and love sincere, 
While to high heaven they recommend 
Their benefactor and their friend. 

Is there a scene on earth or sky, 
Even to the wrapt enthusiast's eye, 
Can give a transport so divine 
As must these hallowed toils of thine ? 
For fairer wreaths to thee are due 
Than e'er bound bard or warrior's brow ; 
And thou alone shalt gild our name, 
When earth and ether blaze in flame, 



30 

And from the starry crown we wear, 
While circles heaven's eternal year. 

Oh, come then, thou celestial guest. 
And dwell still in thy votory's breast ; 
Thou wealth ne'er own'd thee for a son, 
Yea still let me thy errand run, 
If thou but mak'st my bosom glow. 
Or even the smallest boon bestow, 
That deed, I know, Heaven will approve, 
And angels register above. 



VERSES 



Addressed to a Young Man when about to leave his 
Native Country. 

And must thou, B nie, haste away. 

So inexperienced and so young ? 

Shall we thy parting scene survey, 
And Sorrow's harp remain unstrung ? 

For thou art pure as mountain snow, 
And gentle as the infant's smile, 

And feel'st effect ion's warmest glow — 
Devoid of art — devoid of guile. 



31 



Thy heart so kind, thy head so clear, 
Bound to our souls by friendship's tie. 

Shall it be rent without a tear, 
Or called to mind without a sigh ? 

Whether thou sail'st the ocean through, 
Or on some foreign shore may'st stray, 

Our thoughts shall still thy path pursue, 
And fancy oft thy face pour tray. 

And if our vows and prayers avail, 

No boistrous storms shall round thee rave ; 

But zephyrs mild shall fill the sail 
That wafts thee o'er the western wave, 

And oft as social friends partake 

Of rest, they'll eye thy chair with pain ; 

And haply prize it for the sake 
Of him they ne'er may meet again. 



32 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT 
HON. THE EARL OF HOPETOUN. 



"How vain this tribute then ! this lowly lay ! 
Yet nought is vain that gratitude inspires." 

Thomson. 



What mournful news are these we hear, 
Borne, Summer, on thy dawning gale ; 

Well may we sigh and drop the tear, 
If sighs and tears could aught avail. 

And art thou gone, thou best of men, — 
No more with lingering sickness pain'd, 

Soaring above our mortal ken, 

At length thy native skies thou'st gained. 

We mourn not for departed worth, 
? Tis our own fate which we deplore ; 

We've lost our kindest friend on earth ; 
Our noble master is no more. 

Ah ! what availed thy splendid hall, 
Thy titles high, and land so wide ? 

With these, stern Death might well appal, 
But thou had other wealth beside. 



33 

Cornelius like, thy alms and prayers 

To heaven's high throne did still ascend ; 

These, these were thine unceasing cares, 
And gilt with joy thy latter end, 

Sure Charity, in seraph's guise, 

Appear'd before thy youthful sight, 

And that she gain'd thee for a prize, 
Was shown in many an action bright. 

Then all at once, to thy young heart, 
The virtues and the graces flew, 

And there with all their heavenly art, 
Their Maker's fairest image drew, 

Tho' change of places, times, and ways, 
Thy love for man unceasing glow'd, 

While from thy heart, like SoPs bright rays, 
A thousand streams of goodness flbw'd, 

When sceptic folly sway'd the world, 
Like beacon's blaze in time of war, 

Thy Christian standard was unfurl'd, 
And bright example show'd afar, 

When faction rear'd his giant form, 
And made the nations stand in awe, 

Thou didst withstand the sweeping storm— 
The guard of order and of law, 
c 



34 



There is a wisdom guides the just, 
A power unseen that must preside ; 

Or how could feeble child of dust 

Thus bear 'gainst fashion's whelming tide. 

All Scotia well for thee may feel, — 

Her best of Barons torn away, 
Extinct is now that patriot zeal. 

Which glow'd in danger's darkest day. 

When pressing times like these appear'd, 
When sad desponding fears alarm, 

Thy ready aid thy tenants cheer'd, 
And nerv'd industry's palsied arm. 

Still as thy favours they review, 

(The chief in memory's treasured store), 

They'll think, while tears their cheeks bedew, 
The hand that gave them — gives no more. 

Thy name embalm 'd in every breast, 
Shall still thro' varying life remain, 

To whom they often made request, 
That never yet was made in vain. 

Well might the young, and aged poor, 
Secur'd by thee from famine's fears, 

Alarm'd hear of thy mortal hour, 
And follow thy remains in tears. 



35 



The sons of science too may sigh, 
And hang fresh garland on thy tomb* 

Thou did the costly key supply, 

Which opened Learning's hallowed dome, 

Bnt one that mourns thee most of all, 
No lapse of years from grief shall free, 

While Memory can thy work recal, 

She'll beat her burden'd breast for thee, 

Thy image on her saddened heart, 
Shall still a filial homage claim, 

And still to act the same bright part, 
Shall be thy noble Lady's aim. 

Forgive, great shade ! the illiterate Muse* 
If too presuming she be deemed, 

That she such lofty theme should choose, 
As one so honour'd, lov'd, esteem'd, 



36 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT 
HON. LADY ANN HOPE JOHNSTONE, 



To save thyself from darkness and from death, 
My Muse desires the last the lowest place, 
Who tho' unmeet, yet touch'd the trembling string. 
For the fame of Ann Pri or. 



And has stern Nature's debt been paid, 
Ere her fair form with years was worn. 

And in the silent grave now laid, 
The good, the great, the nobly born. 

The head of an illustrious line, 
That high in glory's list appears, 

Who shall in Scotland's annals shine, 
While time is told by days and years. 

Her virtues (who did so excel, 
And on her sires a lusture threw), 

Shall not the morning muses tell, 
And bid her parting shade adieu f 



37 

What though her lowest servant I, 

Unfit a theme so sad to sing. 
Yet while for her I heave a sigh, 

My harp of sorrow too I'll string. 

Though placed in an exalted sphere? 

Her sense of duty never failed, 
And though the virtues all were dear, 

Still \torks of mercy most prevailed. 

Heaven's bounty seeme to wait her will ; — 
Possess'd as of some powerful charm, 

She kept the poor, in famine, full, 
And in the coldest winter warm, 

From infants on the nurse's knee 
To tottering age and tresses gray, 

Her bounty flow'd, and flow'd so free, 
That want and sorrow fled away. 

Who with such prudence, with such wit, 
Will check the proud, the lowly raise ? — 

With her, our star of bliss seems set, 
And darkness now o'erspread our days. 

The lowest labourer in her lands, 

That, raptured, long her praise will speak, 
Ev'n now his toilsome task suspends 

To sigh aud wipe his tcar=run cheek, 



38 



O Death ! why didst thou close the eye 
That cheer'd the soul in sorrow drown'd, 

And all untimely break the tie 
That two congenial bosoms bound ? 

Or quench that fond maternal flame 
That her fair offspring often prov'd ? 

But why in thy cold ear declaim, 

Whom prayers or tears yet never moved ! 

No wasting woes, no slow decay, 

Taught her that earth-born bliss was vain, 
For health with roses strewM her way, 

Ev'n on the verge of death's domain. 

The ready need not warning long, — 
Her robes of light she wore ev'n here, 

And learned to sing the seraph song, 

That lasts through Heaven's eternal years. 



39 



ON THE DEATH OF D. GRAHAM, Esq. 

Late Banker and Mayor of Bassingstock, Hampshire, 

who died suddenly, on the 3d August, 1820, while 

on a Visit to his Friends in Annandale, 



Woe to the Bard, whate'er his fame, 
Who flatters power for pelf or meed, 

Yet will not spare one parting strain 

In memory of the honoured dead ! Hogg, 



Three days — and was thy sickness then no niore, 
Who didst such honour to thy native place ? 

So quickly wafted to the eternal shore — 

Torn from thy brothers' and thy friends' embrace. 

One little week by thee was set apart 
Friends to revisit, long and justly dear ; 

Friends, who scarce hailed thee with exulting joy, 
When called to sorrow o'er thy silent bier ! 

To see their graves who rear'd thy youth so kind, 
Engaged the first of all thy pious cares ; 

Ah ! didst thou dream, with a foreboding mind, 
That eight short days would lay thy dust with 
their's,? 



40 



Fair was thy form in manhood's blooming morn, 
Nor was that form by wasting years brought low ; 

If ruddy health might e'er hold death in scorn, 
Sure none around thee less could fear the blow. 

In vain the sous of physic flock'd around, 

With anxious hearts, their various arts to try ; 

Death's iron cords thy manly frame had bound, — 
Cords human art could never yet untie. 

Though thy loved partner could not see thy last, 
With trembling hand to lend her feeling aid, 

? Mid kindred bosoms thy short illness pass'd, 
And holy duties soothed thy parting shade. 

Great was thy charity, and warm thy love, 
To those around whom want or woe annoyed ; 

From these blest toils thy spirit soared above — 
Who would not wish to die while thus employed ? 

The hazy mist hung on the mountain's side, 

The clouds, surcharged, made rivers run in foam. 

The lingering hours in sadness seem'd to glide, 
That sunless day we bore thee to the tomb. 

With warning voice thy ashes seemed to say, 
"Mortals attend, nor wealth nor power can save, 

Death oft is nearest health's most flattering day, 
Even deeds o£mei ' shields not from the grave" 



II 



A stranger Muse this tribute pays to thee, 

Not for thy wealth, though Heaven gave ample 

But virtue pure, and generous courtesy — Qstore, 
Shall these be lost, and none thy loss deplore ? 



ON THE DEATH OF 'M B- 



Haste ! Jet Sorrow's harp be strung, 
O'er Mary let a dirge be sung. 
For she was sweet, and fair, and young, 
Whom death has reft away.. 

Her bosom was the drifted snow, 
Her eyes made frozen age to glow ; 
And many a tear for her shall flow, 

Who fills the bed of clay. 

Ah ! lowly now that form is laid, 
Where every grace was seen pourtrayed, 
And every word and action said 

A seraph dwelt with in . 

The dew-drops on the flowers that spring, 
Or those shower'd from the sky-lark's wing, 
When high at morn he soars to sing, 
Were not more pure, I ween- 



42 

Though wasting sickness early came, 
Yet still her beauty seemed the same, 
And oh ! her temper's heavenly frame, 
No varying scene could move. 

And though the victim of a power, 
That gave no pain -remitting hour, 
No cloud seem'd on her brow to lower, — 
There all was light and love. 

Oft did maternal fondness sigh, 
To see the hour of fate draw nigh, 
And wearied Heaven with many a cry, 
A dear-loved child to spare. 

But cries and tears were all in vain, 
The tyrant Death asserts his reign, 
And she, the flower of all the plain, 
No more life's sweet must share. 

Bless'd with a form so loved, so praised, 
Doubtless her fancy's eye oft gazed 
On fairy scenes that hope had raised, 
In life's gay glowing morn. 

While love and friendship both combined, 
And round her heart their cords entwined. 
Yet still a voice was heard behind, 

All earth-born bliss to scorn. 



43 

The mist of sense disolved away, 

On future scenes Truth poured a ray ; 

She saw, and sighed to be away, 

Where joys are still secure. 

Heaven's portals seemed to open wide, 
While Faith her eagle wings supplied ; 
She seemed in heaven before she died, — 
Fit place for one so pure. 

And still, thou hallowed piece of earth, 
Where beauty rests, let flowers spring forth, 
And deck the grave of her, whose worth 
No song of bard can show* 

No nightly spectre shall come here, 
But angels often hovering near, 
Shall sure review, with many a tear, 
Their image laid so low, 



44 



A PASTORAL ELEGY, 

To the Memory of Miss S— 



Sweet Spring is come ; the primrose pale 
Expands its bosom to the day ; 

With joy we hail the genial gale 
That melts the mountain snows av, 

The larks, on quivering wings upborne, 
With carols hail morn's infant ray : 

Why, Strephon, droops thy head forlorn ? 
Why joins not their's thy minstrel lay ? 

"Ah ! never more my oaten reed 

Shall echo through yon woody glen ; 

No more the mazy dance I'll lead, 
Nor quaff the bowl with social men. 

More dear to me yon yew-tree shade, 
Where gloomy death extends his reign, 

For there they've born my favourite maid, 
The flower of all the vestal train. 

More dear to me the dasied sod 
That wraps, Eliza, thy cold clay. 

Than joys of mirth's illumed abode, 
Or all the sweets of vernal dav. 



Iii vain Heaven's mystic ways I trace ; 

Why was such woe for me ordained, 
To wither in my fond embrace, 

Whene'er my long-ask'd love I gained, 

The nightly journey oft I took, — 

And prayed for thee the weary while,— 

Sad on thy fevered couch to look, 
Or share the welcome of thy smile. 

To see the rosy charms decay, 

Still lingering on thy cheek so pale. 

When thy pure spirit winged its way, 
That sister seraphs well might hail. 

To close those eyes, whose beams were love^ 
And pure as heaven from all alloy ; 

To see those lips no longer move, 

Whose accents filled my soul with joy, 

All, all are fled, like visioned bliss, 
Which sainted souls entranced see ; 

But sighs and tears shall stiil express 
How fond remembrance dwell on thee, 

Thy heart was cast in holy mould, 
Which beams still on thy face so fair j 

Long ere thy years, so few, were told, 
Heaven stamped its loveliest image there, 



46 



Thou joiu'st the song of seraphs now, 
While lingering here I lag behind ; 

Had death's fell dart but struck me too, 
That dart had not been so unkind. 

But thou shalt visit me in dreams — 
Thy angel face I yet shall see ; 

Whilst with such hopes my fancy teems, 
Thou art not wholly lost to me. 

My constant heart thou then shall view, 
Which now no earthly object cheers ; 

The pang felt at thy last adieu, 
Still, still increases with my years. 

And thou shalt see thine image there, 
When blushing in thy youthful bloom, 

Which rolling years shall still repair, 
Till I, like thee, shall fill the tomb. ,> 

So spake the youth his notes of woe, 
And then in haste, he from me fled ; 

With his my tears did copious flow, 
For well I knew the peerless maid. 



47 



VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF J. G ML 

Who lately lost his life when bathing in the Water of 
Milk ; a youth of excellent dispositions and great ac- 
quirments, sincerly lamented by all who knew him. 
The more than ordinary grief of his brother, with 
whom he had for some time previously resided, gave 
rise to the following Verses. 

I hate, O Milk ! thy silver winding stream ; 

Black be thy waters as the weeds of woe, 
No more illumined by the sun's bright beam, 

And hushed the music of thy murm'ring flow* 

A lovely youth lies on thy peebly shore, 

Thy dimpling pool has reft his life away ; 

O may no bather tiust thy bosom more, 

Where death's dread demon watches for his prey 

In vain his friends their various efforts try 
To wake the pulse — recal the breath ; 

In vain around him hundreds piteous sigh ;■ 
Can these arrest the clay-cold hand of death ? 

But ah ! his brother more than all distressed, 
Last with reluctness from those trials came ; 

His painful feelings, ne'er by words expressed, 
The muse interprets, but how sad the theme, 



48 



Adieu, dear youth ! the hour of hope is past 

Since death relentless holds his iron claim ; 
And thy pure spirit's with th'imortals classed, 

Till heaven's last thunders wake man's sleeping 

[frame. 
Long, long for thee I'll shed the bitter tear, 

Once all my boast, my glory and my pride ; 
And shall I lose thee, and with patience bear, — 

Torn (cruel fate ! ) untimely from my side. 

Thy soul well formed fair Virtue's wreath to gain, 
Each sordid pursuit ever soared above ; 

Without one thought or feeling to restrain, 
Save those of boundless sympathy and love. 

In duty's path no terrors could control ; 

Thou though t'st no sacrifice for truth too dear ; 
Heaven's high impress was stamped upon thy soul, 

And marked thee out for glory's bright career. 

How oft would fancy paint thy future days, 
And spread a feast of hallowed joys for thee ! 

Thy soul expanding like the morning's rays, 
Thy fortune ample as thy heart was free. 

She saw thy friends to thee for succour driven, 
When want assailed them, or affliction great ; 

At once thy prompt, thy powerful aid was given, 
Like Mercy's mandate in the hour of fate. 



49 



For ever fled those visions of delight, 

Torn from my soul, they leave a void behind ; 

All nature now, clothed in the garb of night, 
Presents no object to attract my mind. 

Oh ! nipt or blasted like some budding flower, 
While vernal breezes should its leaflets fan ; 

In vain descend the genial warmth and shower, 
Its glowing tints no more adorn the lawn. 

A sage in wisdom, though a child in years, 
Heaven saw thee ripened for a happier clime, 

Hence caught thee up to more congenial spheres, 
Exempt from all the cares and woes of time. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR SIMPSON, 

OVERSEER AT CASTLEMILK. 

Whence come those strains of woe so late, 
When midnight's darkest cloud is lowering ! 

Oh, Simpson ! thy untimely fate 
Sets every feeling heart deploring. 

Who shall not join the Muse's moan, 
And curse with me yon fatal river, 

That hear, unmoved, thy last groan, 

And chilled thy heart, so warm, for ever, 

D 



50 



Dark was that morn that proved thy last, 
The lowering clouds seem'd big with sorrovr, 

Thick fell the rain, loud blew the blast 
On him that must not see to-morrow. 

Oh ! didst thou take one lingering look ? — 
Some sister weird thy fate fortelling, 

Who said, while thy frame shivering shook, 
'Tis thy last view of Hart's gay dwelling. 

Sweet sleep her golden visions shed 
Last night upon thy downy pillow ; 

This night stern Fate hath made thy bed, 
Beneath old Annan's raging billow. 

Thy naked spirit, winged on high, 

Must view thy Maker's throne unclouded ; 
Its name, its fate, and its employ, 
* From mortal ken for ever shrouded. 

No warning spirit near thee stood ; 

No omen dire thy heart unmaning ; 
Thou went'st from home in musing mood, 

The bliss of others planning. 

Pacing with weary steps along, 

And risking life in no rash venture, 

Thou soon didst gain the busy throng, 
Where numerous sons of Trade concentre. 



51 



Though placed on life's remotest brink, 

That o'er eternity seems jutting, 
Not one, in all that throng, could think 

That he on earth had firmer footing. 

The cold, the wet, the shivering frame, 
Asks cordials to renew its vigonr ; 

And he that would deny the claim, 

Would treat himself with sordid rigour, 

How sweet to sit by smoking bowls, 

Where glasses ring midst mirth's gay earrols, 

While friendship blends congenial souls, 
Unmoved by feud or folly's quarrels. 

Simpson ! thy open generous breast 
Disowns each mean and miser feeling ; 

And if too long the landlord's guest, 
'Tis suffering Nature's claim prevailing. 

Yet, oh ! suppress that ardent glow 
Of love and friendship both together ; 

Too long these circling glasses flow, 
Why call another — and another. 

Let thoughts of home thy soul pervade, 
The dark'ning shades of eve reprove thee ; 

Go — call thy horse, too long delay'd, 

And wary ride with those that love thee. 



52 

Now whilst thou mount'st thy fiery steed, 
Oh ! may protecting saints watch o'er thee ; 

Why hurry, hurry with such speed, 

When death in ambush lies before thee ? 

Let counsel curb thy bridle rein ; 

Oh ! hear thy friend that knows things better, 
Who often cries "refrain, refrain, 

And do not tempt yon deadly water. 

"O'er all its banks high rolls the stream, 
Ride by yon bridge as I would hare thee ; 

If through thy horse thou triest to swim, 

There's not a power on earth can save thee." 

More still thou pliest the spur and whip, 
Thy horse's leaps turn wide and wider, 

Now plunges in the gulphy deep, 
And soon returns without its rider. 

Ah ! didst thou cry ? — it was to Heaven ; 

Who else could save in such condition ? 
Since mortal life could not be given, 

Thy soul's would form thy whole petition. 

Through varying life to virtue true,— 
'Midst busy scenes thy fame untainted ; 

Why torn so early from our view, 

When thy tried merit most we wanted \ 



53 



And though thy corpse should ne'er be found, 
Deep sanded 'neath the flood-swell'd river. 

Thy worth to many a bosom's bound, 
Which life's last sigh alone shall sever, 



LAMENTATION OF AX IMPRISONED 
RADICAL. 

The night was dark, the air was cold, 
The clock its lates hour had toll'd, 
The lamps were dying all, or dead- 
Nought heard but the lone watchman's tread, 
Or sentinel, that to and fro 
Walked humming on with pace more slow ; 
'Twas then, from Glasgow's dreary Jail, 
Was heard a prisoner's plantive wail ; 
'Twas William's once his family's pride, 

The Henry Hunt of K tie side ; 

But how repentant, crest-fallen now ! 
No triumphs beaming from his brow, 
As when the crowds enraptured hung 
Upon his sly seditious tongue. 
To night's lone air, in simple rhymes, 
Thus gave his history and his crimes : 



54 

How sleepless is the weary eye I 

The eye of guilt should never close , 

'Tis mine to wake, 'tis mine to sigh, 
While innocence enjoys repose. 

Oh ! how I mourn the long lost days, 
Blest days of infancy and youth, 

When first I lisp'd heaven's sacred lays, 
And treasured up the words of truth. 

My path of life, a path of flowers, 
I trod with footsteps light as air ; 

But now guilt clogs my heavy hours, 
With dread forebodings of despair, 

Why did my heart to truth grow cold, 
And leave the path my fathers trod ? 

A thousand woes not to be told, 
Attend my wild eccentric road. 

I loved to read, I loved to talk, 
Of questions subtile and profound ; 

And though doom'd to life's humblest walk, 
I hoped in time to be renowned. 

For now my country suffered sore, 
Her plaints of woe were heard afar ; 

Could I some remedy explore, 
She'd hail me as a leading star. 



55 

For this I spurn'd each holy sage, 
That best the wayward passions tame, 

To pore on faction's lying page, 

That lights and fans rebellion's flame. 

An orater I now commenced, 

And 'gainst our statesmen loudly railed ; 
I must not, could not be silenced, 

Till once my faction had prevailed, 

So busied with th' affairs of state, 
To me at best, but dimly known, 

The more t' embitter my sad fate, 
AlasJ I quite forgot my own. 

Some demon in my bosom raged ; 

All love of daily toil was lost ; 
The eyes of men must be engaged, 

Whate'er the worthless purchase cost. 

To Radicals my plans I told ; — 

Like me, a discontented crew, 
They said Britannia was grown old, 

But they would soon her age renew. 

Thro' all her veins they'd send young health, 
Make joy her bosom wide expand; 

And all the dams of lordly wealth 
Run glorious, glittering through the h 



56 

I fear'd their's was a wicked cause, 
That wit or power would ill defend : 

None ever violates Heaven's blest laws, 
But meet destruction in the end. 

They call'd me Superstition's child. 
The wretched dupe of priestly knaves ; 

A lying Bible had beguiled, 

Which served at best to keep men slaves. 

Now, by a brighter genius led, 
I'd see men's destiny more clear, 

When I had Paine and Palmer read, 
With Carlile. Volney, and Voltaire. 

What ! toss my Bible quite aside, 
Revered by all the best on earth, — 

The book that was my father's pride, 
And taught me almost from my birth. 

Your fates, without a prophet's powers, 

'Tis but too easy to for tell ; 
They'll hang those famished frames of your's 

And hurl your heathenish souls to hell. 

'Like you, the Bible we did prize, 
And fancied all its doctrines facts; 

But, lo ! what opened all our eyes" — 
Then filled my hand with Carlile'^ Tracts- 



.57 



Late, late I bore the numbers home, 

With a strange trembling fear and dread ; 

I thought my sire rose from the tomb, 
And even implored me not to read. 

But things forbidden have a charm ; 

So, while the world unconscious slept, 
In my poor bed I could not warm, 

Till I had o'er these numbers peep'd. 

I thought my faith would stand the test 
Of the whole Deist host combined ! 

But oh ! it died within my breast, 
And left a fearful blank behind. 

Spirits of darkness ! then your power, 

And triumph o'er me seemed complete ! — 

Congenial with night's darkest hour, 
'Twas like perdition's sealing rite. 

Prepared, and quite initiate now, 
To deeds of horror well inclined, 

The Radicals, around my brow 

At once their brightest wreath entwined. 

Cursed be that morn that ruddy rose, 
When joyful they around me met, 

And for their Delegate me chose, 
And swore that none was half so fit. 



58 

But justice marked my wanderings wild, 
Whose eagle eye is never closed, 

And me chastised ; — like erring child, 
I kiss the rod, and am composed. 

Ye dreary walls that bound my view, 
Round which my eyes incessant roll, 

Blest be the day when lodged in you, 
Ye've calni'd the fever of my soul. 

Here, now, I curse the sceptic's lore, 
That freezes every feeling dry — 

That shuts, O Heaven ! thy golden door, 
And starless makes hopes fairest sky. 

My Maker ! give me faith again ; 

With every grace my heart improve ; 
Remove my doubt, the soul's worst pain ; 

Infold me in thy arm of love. 

Religion, disregarded guest, 

Returns in trouble's hour to cheer ; 

My Bible's to my bosom prest, 

I've wet its texts with many a tear. 

And well may I weep tears of blood, 
For mischief that I wished to raise ; 

But guardian angels ronnd me stood, 

And cross'd my will and hedged my Mays. 



59 



Ye Radicals of modern times, 
Oh ! ponder well what I relate, 

And from my sufferings and my crimes, 
Be timely warned to shun my fate. 



AN EVENING WALK. ON THE BANKS 
OF CORRIE. 

Hard toil is o'er, the evening's cool, 

O Corrie ! I'll to thee repair ; 
Thy rural charms can sooth my soul, 

And banish each corroding care. 

From yonder glade the mellow thrush, 
And linnet, pour their music still ; 

And hark ! it pours from yonder bush, 
That, scattered, spots yon sloping hill. 

Fair on thy banks the osiers grow, 

That, bending, lave the crystal stream, 

And here the empurpled meadows glow, 
Tinged by yon sun's meridian beam, 



6o 



The birch and saugh, in winding rows, 
Cast o'er thy meads a quivering shade, 

And from sweet bowers of calm repose, 
For wandering lovers thither led. 

The lowing herds graze round and round, 
And on the hills the lambkins play, 

And oft thy teeming vales resound, 
The lone-lorn shepherd's plantive lay. 

But yonder comes my charming Jean, 
The sylvan scenery to adorn ; 

How light she trips the flowery green, 
Pure as the silvery star of morn ! 

Sweet, Corrie, dost thou glide along, 
And sweet thy flowery meads to see. 

Sweet is thy lark and linnet's song, 
But sweeter far is Jean to me. 

Thou sable cloud that passest by, 

With amber skirts, like my love's hair. 

Say, in thy passage through the sky, 
Didst thou e'er shade a nymph so fair ? 

With her superior charms impressed, 
All else beside quite disappear ; 

I clasp her to my glowing breast, 

And breathe my ardent vows sincere. 



61 



We'll hie us to yon lonely glade, 

Where loud the woodland minstrels sing, 
Where milk-white thorns their flow'rets spread. 

Borne off by zephyr's thievish wing. 
There we'll enjoy th' enraptured hour, 

Which pure affections ever bring ; 
No cold distrust our brows shall lotfer, 

Nor guilt point fell remorse's sting. 



THIS IS NOT OUR REST. 



O mortal man ! who lives here by toil, 
Do not complain of this thy hard estate ; 

That, like an emmet, thou must ever moil, 
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date. 

Thomson's Castle of Indolence. 



Ye sons of want, whose weary days 

Are spent in toil and care, 
Who oft recount in murm'ring sighs, 

The few delights ye share : 
Hark ! from on high, is heard a cry, 

To you it is address'd, 
"All here below's a scene of woe, 

For this is not our rest," 



62 



This was not man's primeval state 

In Eden's blooming bowers ; 
Where he enjoyed an angel's bliss, 

And near an angel's powers: 
Still as the golden moments rolled, 

New transports filled his breast ; 
And heaven and earth proclaimed aloud, 

It was a place of rest. 
But soon the fiend of hell assailed 

The first of human kind ; — 
They fell — and all their wretched race 

To numerous woes consigned. 
They fell — and Nature felt the shock 

Through all her realms imprest ; 
And now proclaims in mournful strains., 

There is no place for rest. 
No more on man's thin pallid cheek 

Immortal youth is seen ; 
For fiery passions tear the breast, 

Once placid and serene. 
The sterile earth salutes with thorns 

Each outcast wandering guest ; 
While thunders roll, and tempests howl, 

There is no place of rest. 
In vain Vice, with her seeming flowers, 

Bestrews life's thorny road, 
Or tries, on sinking sands, to rear 

A firm secure abode : 



63 



For Conscience-stings, like canker worms, 

Doth all her flowers infest, 
And adverse fate, like whelming floods, 

O'erturns his house of rest. 
Nor did Religion leave the sky 

To shield us from our woe — 
The path she points is wet with tears, 

Which from her votaries flow : 
'Tis her's alone, with healing balm, 

To sooth her sons distrust ; 
But still her voice is — Here below 

There is no place of rest. 
Patriarchs and Prophets found this earth 

(With all the martyr band) 
A vale of tears, — a field of blood, — 

A sad and weary land. 
Through many fightings, many fears, 

Their way to heaven they prest ; 
Like ships on ocean's tossing wave, 

They found no place of rest. 
Then shall we hope, in these last days, 

That heaven shall change our state ; 
Or shall our clam'rous discontent 

Reverse the laws of fate ? 
No ; — He that orders all below, 

And orders for the best. 
Make sin and guilt, disease and pain, 

Leave here no place of rest. 



64 



Then let us spurn this sordid earth, 

With all its fleeting toys, 
And raise our souls above the stars. 

In quest of nobler joys : 
Then Death shall wear an angel's face, 

And rank ns 'mong the blest, 
And earth's cold womb, shall lend a tomb, 

Our wearied bones to rest. 



VERSES ON THE NEW JAIL OF DUMFRIES. 



Honest merit stauds on slippery ground 
Where covert, guile, and artifice abound ; 
Let just restraint, for public peace design, 
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind. 

C0\VP£R. 



With sable omens let thy base be laid ! 

Thou house of sorrow and of suffering drear, 
Within thy walls scenes shall exist so sad, 

The painful prospect well may claim a tear. 

Fair Liberty, with all her cherub train, 
To this lone spot soon bids a long farewell ; 

While Bondage, smiling, clanks his iron chain, 
Barring the door of many a dreary cell. 



65 

Torn from their wives' and fam'lies' fond embrace, 
There, shall th' unfortunate sons of trade be borne ; 

While wealth and power unpitying view their case- 
Now left abandon'd to disgrace and scorn. 

In vain to some shall Hope her aid impart, 

While stern Reflection, with her scorpions, reigns ; 

The wounds of honour still must bleed and smart, 
While sense of worth and decency remains. 

But what are these, to yet a sadder train 

In mournful plight, the pitying muse draws near, 

Slow, slow they move, and drag the galling chain — - 
The sons of violence, ah ! what looks they wear ! 

In their last morn, when every hope is flown, 
What tears of anguish shall thy floors bedew ! 

When Fate, relentless, wears his darkest frown, 
And scenes most awful burst upon their view. 

But scenes like these would never wound the soul, 
Would Britain's sons her sacred laws obey ; 

But ah ! how many, spurning just control, 
Act still unfeeling as the beasts of prey. 

How oft has Murder drench'd his gory blade ; 

How oft has Theft purloin'd our choicest stores ; 
How oft has Fraud's pernicious schemes been laid ; 

And fretful Faction rais'd her wild uproars. 

E 



66 

Hail ! then, these walls — the best device of man, 
That peace and justice undisturb'd may reign ; 

And hail ! ye sons, who have improv'd the plan 
That softens rigour with the arts humane. 

Illustrious Howard ! now enthroned in bliss, 
If aught on earth thy sainted soul surveys, 

How wilt thou joy at such a scene as this, 

Which stamps new glory on these latter days. 

Roll on, ye years — haste, let the time draw nigh, 
When lawless rage no more shall man debase ; 

When sacred virtue, heavenly peace and joy, 
Shall o'er the nations shed their genial rays. 



ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE AND 
PLENTY, IN 1801. 

What makes those windows blaze so bright ? 

What makes those connons roar ? 
What makes those hearts with transport light 

That sigh'd so oft before ? 

Hail, Peace and Plenty ! long-lost pair, 

Restor'd to us again ; 
At your approach, war, want, and care, 

Fly with their cursed train. 



67 

In vain did Plenty barn-yards fill,. 

With an abundant store, — 
While cruel War, insatiate still, 

Could half her gifts devour. 

Nor had thy charms, O Peace, so clear, 

Without fair Plenty shone, — 
Domestic broils had stunn'd our ear 

With war's protracted groan. 

Soon, by thy aid, the ploughman's hand, 

Shall make new beauties grace our land ; 

And, by thy aid, there's not a field, 

But shall a richer harvest yield, — 

(If that the God of Seasons smile, 

With fostering suns and showers meanwhile,) 

And round the poor man's hut once more, 

Shall Plenty all her blessings pour ; 

And make her tints of rosy hue 

O'erspread her pallid cheek anew ; 

And raise again her deep sunk eye, 

And sooth to rest each anxious sigh ; 

And with new prospects, gay and grand ; 

Endear to him his native land. 






VERSES, RECOMMENDING THE DEFENCE 
OF OUR COUNTRY. 

Is the pride of Gaillia boasting, 

To invade and lay us low ? 
Our disgrace were everlasting, 

Should we not repel the foe. 

Sure our fathers' blood, fast streaming, 
Bought us blessings few have known ; 

But our honour's past redeeming, 
Should we not transmit them down. 

Shall a tyrant and his legions 

Trample on their laurell'd dust, — 

Spread, through all these peaceful region* 
Scenes of rapine, blood, and lust ? 

Shall they tell through every nation, 
'Midst their triumph's wild uproar, 

Britain ! pride of all creation, 
That thy glory is no more ? 

Haste ! and spurn lethargic slumbers, 
'Midst such threats and dire alarms ; 

Ri se — strike terror with your numbers ; 
Ri se — and hurl your vengful arms. 



69 

See, our Nobles are all meeting, — 

To ensure the public weal ; 
See, our Holy Sires uniting, 

To exalt our patriot zeal, 

Round our island, like a rampart. 
We shall stand a brazen wall ; 

And, ere France shall call us conquer'd, 
We shall perish one and all. 



TO A FRIEND, ABOUT TO EMBARK 
FOR AMERICA. 

And must my dear friend go away ?— 

The kindest and the best ; 
There's few misfortunes here below 

Could make me so distress'd. 

Near thee, to tread the path of life, — 
The path with flowers seem'd strown ; 

But now I'll feel't a dreary way, 
And cheerless walk alone. 

To thee, in every social hour, 

My soul I could impart ; 
For thou had'st something still in store 

To cheer my drooping heart. 



70 

Affections, ever sweet and kind, 

Shone from thy face serene ; 
Thine was the firm unvarying soul. 

In every trying scene. 

O ! while thou saiPst the ocean through, 

May no rude tempests roar ; 
But breezes mild thy frail bark waft 

Safe to the destin'd shore. 

There may each virtuous joy thee greet, 

And every wish fulfil ; 
And a benignant Providence 

Smile on thy efforts still. 

But, let not wealth, tho' lavish given 

Elate thy soul with pride ; 
And make thee spurn the humble swain 

That labours by thy side. 

Nor let cold Averice steel thy heart 
'Gainst Misery's plaintive cry ; 

Nor luxury debase thy soul, 
Till its best feelings die. 

And if misfortunes, in a train, 
Should mark thee for their own, 

And blast the blossoms of thy hope< 
Even those that fairest shone. 



71 

Yet still, pure as th' unsullied snow, 

Thy bosom keep within ; 
Scorn by ignoble arts to rise, 

Replete with shame aud sin. 

Oft let thy thoughts from earth's low scene's, 

Up to thy Maker soar ; 
And when temptations thicken round, 

He'll guard thee by his power. 

Still let the ardent love of truth 

Thy youthful heart inflame ; 
Why should the blest impulse be quenched 

By ought that earth can name ? 

Oft think upon thy distant friends, 

Who will thy absence mourn ; 
And when a competence is gained, 

O hasten and return, 

Perh tps yet in thy splendid hall, 

With hoary head I'll sit, 
And hear thee talk of other lands, 

Their manners, arts, and wit. 

But, ah ! I fear a pale disease 

Fast calls thy friend away ; 
And ere thou gain'st thy native shore, 

He'll moulder in the clay. 



72 

But, till the latest breath I draw, 
Thy worth I'll keep in mind; 

Nor hope, among our selfish race, 
A nobler soul to find. 



JAMIE AND MARY. 

The mist steals down the mountain side, 
And night in sadness seems to lower ; 

But love's sweet star my steps shall guide, 
I yet shall reach my Mary's door. 

In vain the tempest spirit howls, 
Or torrents sweep my weary road ; 

I fearless wade thro' streams and pools — 
To reach my Mary's dear abode. 

O Cynthia ! light thy silver lamp, 

And burst yon dusky cloud out through ; 

O guide me through this marshy swamp ; 
O beam upon yon mountain brow. 

The prayer was vain, — for darker still 
- The night her pitchy mantle drew ; 
Till o'er a steep poor Jamie fell, 
And bade the Jiving world adieu. 



73 



No eye that night his Mary clos'd, 

But made the hearth witk faggots blaze ; 

And oft, without; the torch expos'd, 
T' attract her lover's wilder'd gaze. 

"He's gone ! he's gone ! his beauteous form 
No more in rapture meets my sight; 

Ah ! he hath perished in the storm, 
That raves around, this cruel night." 

His dog arrives, in piteous plight, 
(Hope darts a momentary ray) ; 

But soon it backward bent its flight, 

And, howling, watch 'd his corpse till day. 

"What makes my anxious bosom beat ? — 
Heard ye that groan ? — 'twas Jamie's last ; 

Some bank has sunk beneath his feet, 

And o'er him now the stream has pass'd." 

A thousand times, by love impell'd, 
She sought the gulphy way to trace ; 

At length the morning beams dispell'd 
The cloud that hung on Nature's face. 

The thistle 'gins to lift its head ; 

With every storm -toss'd shrub and spray ; 
While down the hill, and cross the mead, 

The new-form'd streamlets cease to straw 



74 

The rain-drops, like a copious dew, 
A glittering radiance now display ; 

The heavens unveil their azure blue ; 
The sun in splendour pours the day. 

But, ah ! in Mary's anguished soul, 
The night of fate was doom'd to reign ; 

There, still must troublous passions roll, 
Nor jovs sweet morn e'er dawn again. 

Short was the space of anxious fear, 
Till Jamie's mangled corse was found ; 

And soon the tidings reached her ear, 
And laid her lifeless on the ground. 

And short, sweet maid, had been thy woe, 
Had thy soul joined thy Jamie's then ; 

But thy eyes op'd, that tears might flow, 
And life returned to lengthen pain. 

For yon lone stream she leaves her home, 
When oft with Jamie forth she stole ; 

Now pale and troubled as the foam, 
That mantles o'er the dimpling pool. 

"Dear sainted shade ! where dost thou dwell ? 

Mark'st thou thy Mary mourning here ? 
Mark'st thou her bosom's throbbing swell ? 

Or can'st thou trace each trickling tear ? 



75 



"Thy love to ine has cost thee dear, 

And with thee life's best blessing's fled ; 

I'll hail the hour, with joy sincere, 
That lays me in thy lowly bed." 

For this, the lone retreat she seeks, 

To give her frantic soul relief; 
And weening Jamie's spirit speaks, 

She lengthens out her strains of grief. 

And when toil's o'er, at close of day, 
Or else beneath the moon's pale beam, 

To Jamie's grave she hies away, 

And bathes the spot with sorrow's strea in. 

"Thou flow'ry sod, and earthy load,'' 
She'll cry, "lie light on Jamies breast ; 

Though still I sigh with brimful eye, 
O may thy gentle spirit rest." 

Till, ah ! one night, her Jamie's shade 
Appear'd to fancy's troubled eye ; 

And thus addressed the joyless maid, 
Then in a moment soar'd on high ; 

'Why Mary, cling to this cold grave ? 

Thy Jamie dwells yon stars above ; 
No more let sighs thy bosom heave, — 

We soon shall meet in endless love, " 



76 



With falt'ring steps she hastens home ; — 
Soon Death insidious struck the blow, 

That stretched her close by Jamie's tomb, 
And closed her pilgrimage of woe. 



TO MY COUNTRY. 

Written in Answer to a Friend who had solicited the- 
Author to go to America. 

Oh ! how can I leave thee, my Country, when thou 

Art press'd down with want and with care, 
When the cloud of Affliction lowers dark o'er thy brov 

And thy voice is the voice of despair ? 
Oh ! how could I leave those my infancy rear'd, 

Or the friends who are bound to my heart, 
Who still in the hours of despondency cheer'd, 
Whom a thousand kind actions long, long have en 

I sigh when ye say we should part. [dear'd 

Shall I leave thee my Country, when oft I have wept 
As I pored o'er the page of thy fame ? — 

Each leaf that I turn'd seem'd with hero's blood 
Whom no tyrant ever could tame : [_ steep'd, 



77 

But say, does that current still run in thy veins, 

That flow'd in these sons of my love ? 
Yes — the deeds of their offspring on Waterloo's plains 
Proclaim that thy honour untarnish'd remains, 
And the world of the boast must approve. 

I love thy sweet vallies so winding and long, 

Endear'd by achievements of yore, 
Where the wizard-stream's maze, and the merle's 
proud song, 

Unite to delight me still more ; 
I love even thy hills, where the heath-bell so red, 

Expands in the first days of morn, 
Where the shepherd lies listless, and tunes his lov'd 

reed ; 
While lambs sport around him, and fleecy flocks feed. 

Where no pathway the traveller has worn. 

No ! I'll never leave thee ! — by many strong ties 

Thou art twined round my fond bosom's core ; 
Thy sorrows have often brought tears from my eyes — 

But, to part, would afflict me still more ; 
Yet soon shall thy day of deliverance dawn, 

When the mourners shall burst forth in song ; 
In the march of the nations thou'lt yet lead the van. 
And display every virtue that dignifies man, 

While the tide of thy rears roll along. 



78 



WALTER AND JEAN. 

A TALE. 

What makes my Jeanie shrink frae view, 

When strangers visit her ? 
And still when loudest laughter's heard, 
Why does she drop a tear ? 

Nae mair wi' kilted coats we see 

Thy middle jimp and sma' ; 
Nae mair, amang the maiden train, 

Thou bear's t the gree awa'. 

Oft have I seen thee wander out, 
Beneath the moon's pale beam, 

Fain to relieve thy woe-swollen heart 
By yonder lonely stream. 

The roses now have left thy cheek, 

And languid is thine e'e ; 
I guess some secret cause of grief, 

Thou'st never told to me. 

Young Jamie sigh'd, while o'er her face 
Swift spread the flush of shame ; 

So seems the crimson cloud of eve, 
That drinks the setting beam. 



79 

"Oh ! had I died that day," she said, 
I "When I came to your ha', 
The earth had press'd a bosom then, 
Pure as the new-fa'en snaw, 

"Nae tongue o' scandal then abroad, 

Had told my shamefu' case ; 
Nor would a father's heart been broke, 

Wi' news o' my disgrace. 

"O haste ! cauld Death, and ease the wretch, 
That Hope nae mair can cheer ;" 

Young Walter clasp'd her to his breast, 
And kiss'd the falling tear. 

*'0 ! why such sad, desparing thoughts ? 

I've sworn by all on hie, 
Yon sun shall set to rise nae mair, 

Ere I prove false to thee. 

"I found thee 'mang the vassal train, 

And eyed thee lang wi' care ; 
Nae bud o' spring, nor summer flower, 

To me seem'd half so fair. 

"I saw the maids of high descent, 

In Fashion's tinsel shine ; 
But still my heart confess'd no power 

Nor winning form but thine. 



80 



"And. when I found thy yielding heart 

With mutual passions burn, 
I vow'd to Heaven, thou ne'er should'st bear 

The worlds reproach and scorn. 

"This day should free thee from thy fears, 

Were't not my father's pride ; 
This day, thy fate linked fast to mine, 

I'd claim thee for my bride. 

"But, oh ! T cannot vex his eild, 

A deed I sair might rue ; 
But fain would soothe his latest years, — 

Years that must now be few. 

"But soon thy bliss, like morn, shall dawn, 

Each day augment thy joy ; 
And those that now thy fate deride, 

May yet thy fate envy." 

"O tell me not of future bliss, 

No joy for me remains, 
But in repentance's bitter tears, 

That ne'er can wash my stains. 

"I'll haste me to some other land, 
'Mang strangers hide my shame ; 

I'll never hear my friends lament, 
Nor yet my foes defame. 



81 

^There shall my tears unheeded fa J , 

With every sigh I heave ; 
Till wasting sorrows end my days, 

And send me to the grave." 

"Thou shalt not sae," young Walter said, 

"Still with thy parents stay ; 
What grief would wring my heart and their's, 

To send thee thus away ?" 

Young Walter here renewed his vows ; 

The maiden's fears subside ; 
But still she kept her first resolve, 

Till she could be his bride. 

"Take, then/' he said, "this purse of gold, — 

'Tis all my little store ; 
Perhaps it may thee favour gain 

Among the lowly poor. 

"And may some kind, benignant hand, 

Thy wandering footsteps guide, 
Where sympathising bosoms glow, 

And virtue still reside." 

Next morn, Jean left young Walter's ha 9 , 

As fast as she could hie ; 
And aye she turned to view the place, 

She scarce for tears could see, 

F 



82 

And aye she turn'd to view the platt 

Dear sourse of all her pain ; 
A bodding voice was on her ear, 

She ne'er would see't again. 

In vain the lark aboon her head 

Salutes the new-born day, 
In vain the lambs on ilka hand 

Their wanton gambols play. 

In vain the flowers beneath her feet ; 

In dewy gems were drest, 
For nature had no charms to soothe 

Her sad desponding breast. 

There's nae reek in my father's cot, 

They kenna I'm sae near ; 
Walter shall see I'll keep my threep, 

Though it should cost me dear. 

my poor father ! could they keep 
My tale of grief from thee, 

1 would not sorrow wrung thy heart, 

For worthless child like me. 

She wade the marsh, and clamb the hill, 
She swaipt the mountain side ; 

Then, wearied, sought such lonely ha 1 
As pilgrim's head might hide. 



83 

"O will ye lodge a stranger here, 
That has nae hame ?" she said ; 

"Or will ye keep for generous pay, 
A luckless, erring maid?'' 

Out bespoke a beldame then, 
Her words pierced like a spear, 

"Gin ye hae been some lemau vile, 
Ye's no get harbour here, 

"The curse of Heaven we well might fear 

Would light upon our head." 
Young Jeanie dropt a silent tear, 

And hastened on wi* speed. 

But ah ! this dame had got a heart 

To riches strongly glued, 
And soon she green'd for Jeanie's gold, 

And soon the maid pursued. 

"O turn thee, turn thee, houseless nymph, 

Our ha' shall be thy hame ; 
The night is dark, the roads are foul, 

And O thy feet are lame." 

She led her back a different way, 

Alangst a woody brake ; 
The ha' dog howPd, the screech-owl scream'd 

And sair her limbs did shake. 



84 

She led her to a lonely room ; 

But lang ere it was day, 
Her gold was ta'en, her life was gane 

And she lay cold as elay. 

By moonlight oft the vassal throng 
Her fleeting form have seen, 

While gory seem'd the neck and breast 
Of Walter's bonny Jean ! 



TO THE REV. J W- 



Oh, W f wail o' men maist dear ! 

Wi' heart sae kind, and head sae clear ; 
I wish that thousands in the year 

Thou didst inherit, 
For thou would'st stop the bursting tear 

Of friendless Merit. 

But thou hast what's mair worthy praise, 
A head illumed with Learning's rays ; 
Nor dost thou spend inglorious days, 

But, by Heaven's grace r 
Conduct'st through life's perplexing maze 

Part of our race. 



85 



With arms of love thou dost entwine 

The youth that bends at learning's shrine ; 

And sometimes court'st the tuneful Nine, 

And still wi' honour ; 
Oh ! glorious life, compared wi' mine, 

Poor luckless sinner, 

Condemned by fate's relentless laws, 
To sit imprisoned by four wa*s, 
Nature to me but seldom shaws 

Her varying face ; 
In poortith's toils I must not pause 

Her charms to trace. 

For me in vain sweet morning glows, 

Or dew~elad flowers their charms disclose ; 

In vain the wimpling burnie rows, 

Wi' jingling din, 
Or birds, new wakened frae repose, 

Their strains begin, 

On flowery banks I must not lie, 
While Sol in radiance climbs the sky, 
And balmy zephyrs round me sigh, 

Wafting perfumes, 
The sweets of nature to enjoy, 

And fancy's dreai 



86 



Nor mark the evening redness shift 
Slaw round the ledgings o' the lift, 
Or silver Cynthia, tfi' her drift 

O' sterns sae bonnie ; — 
Na, na, there's nought but ceaseles thrift 

And toil for Johnnie f 

Nor e'en when wintry tempests pour, 
Must I descend some mountain hoar, 
Where forests groan, and rivers roar, 

And eddies boil, 
Or ocean-billows lash the shore, 

In grand turmoil. 

At best, on Nature's ample book, 
I've but a stol'n and short-lived look ; 
'Tis mine to toil mid noise and smoke, 

And durance dree, 
Till death's emancipating stroke 

Shall set me free. 

Ye powers ! why then so formed my frame ? 
Why pants my bosom still for fame, 
And ardent glows the poet's flame ? — 

Oh, sad disgrace ! 
The mad attempt should flush wi' shame 

rustic face. 



My 



87 



Why did I, even in early age, 
Enamoured, scan the glowing page ? 
Or nature's charms my eye engage, 

And bosom warm, 
That not even want's relentless rage 

Could break the charm ? 

And now, even in my riper years, 
In spite of caution's chilling fears, 
In spite of critic's galling jeers, 

I seize the quill, 
To show my betters and my peers, 

My tuneful skill. 

But ah ! the world's got such a ^aste, 
Disgrace, like a pale sheeted ghaist, 
With dread forebodings, haunt my breast, 

That hope should cheer . 
But why my moments should I waste 

On prospects drear ? 

O ye, who work frae day to day, 
Wi' sauls just like their case o' clay, 
On whose blest brain ne'er beam'd a ray 

O' dear-bought science, 
'Tis yours to tread life's thorny way. 

In pain's defiance* 



88 



The sma'est sports your hearts can cheer 
The greatest ills scarce draw a tear ; 
Gie you a claithing hale to wear, 

And fill your wames, 
Nae plaints of woe frae you we'll hear, 

Or airy schemes. 

But ah ! the humble rhyming race, 
Want paints her picture in their face, 
While down their cheeks the tears we trace — 

Offspring of Feeling ; 
But where's the man that cries "alas !" 

Or heeds their wailing. 

Not so, my W , still wi' thee 

The cherub dwells, sweet Sympathy ; 
Thou canst not view, wi' tearless e'e, 

Or heart obdured, 
The lovely sons of Minstrelsy, 

In shades obscured. 



m 



DEATH OF DEAR-MEAL JOHNNIE. 

Have ye heard o' dear-meal Johnnie, 
Farmer in the Whitefield-knowe ? 

He made gear as fast as ony. 

But his neighbours weel kenned how. 

When maist crops were thin and scanty — 

Threatening us wi' famine drear, 
Johnnie's fields produced sic plenty, 
That we hoped for better cheer. 

But their whin-stane hearted master, 
Heedless o' his neighbour's pain, 

(Though he gathered gear nae faster)*, 
Hiddlins cadged away his grain. 

Ony stock that Johnnie keepit, 
Sennel dried pale Famine's tear : 

He had nane, sae aft he threepit, 

Poor folks roun' turn'd iley'd to spier. 

When they spoke, 'twas neist to cryiug, 
John seemed sae confounded dull — 

Still away his bead tfrp shying 1 , 
Glooming like a boxing Bull. 



"Stanes to sell, nought made him willing, 

No entreaty, no advice, 
Till he bargaiu'd for a shilling 

Clear aboon the market price. 

Still the price he gript sae greedy — 
Parted wP the meal sae laith ; 

Had na folk borne' t aff gaye speedy, 
John wad soon hae claimed them baith. 

Then, O gracious ! what a favour, 
John would shake his head and tell ; 

fie would play the like o't never — 
Sell sae cheap and pinch himseP. 

When our betters sought subscriptions, 

For folks in a needy case, 
John rampaged and made eruptions, 

That struck terror through the place. 

a Deil tak' them, and their poor bodies," 
John cried out, "they'll gang wV a' ; 

I could see them hanged wi woodies, 
That projected sic a law." 

When John travelled, 'twas surprising, 
Let the road be short or lang, 

Still the news were, "meal is rising/' 
This was John's unceasing sang. 



91 



Then wi' looks and words sae holy, 
As he'd been a first rate Saint, 

Cried, "the poor folk's pride and folly, 
Hae brought us a' this dearth and want," 

But Johnnie, by sic wily measures, 

Soon got siller at command ; 
Whiles he thought to bank his treasures, 

Whiles he thought to purchase land, 

Whilk way he wad be maist winner, 
Much he thought, and much he spak' ; 

Till, never noticed — ah ! poor sinner ! — 
Death stood girnin' at his back. 

Though wi' years he wasna laded, 
Nature's debt he now must pay ; 

Many an omen dire preceded 
That unlook'd for dreadful day. 

Oft his wraith had been seen gliding, 
'Mang the meal sacks i' the spence ; 

Till the house -folks scarce could bide in't — 
Terrified maist out o' sense. 

Thrice a voice was heard loud crying, 

Grating as the ass's bray— 
" Johnnie, haste, prepare for dying ! 

Johnnie, haste, and come away !" 



92 

'Neath his head the dead-watch tinkled, 
Constant as the lapse of time ; 

Frae his bed the dead-light twinkled, 
Wi' its blue and sulphurous flame. 



'Neath his bed auld Bawty scrapit 
A' day — bhrang as thrang could be, 

Made a hole, sae grave-like shapit, 
Folk glowr'd, quaking, in to see. 

And on the dreary kirk-yard road aye 
By night he raised sic eldrich howls — 

Weel he kenn'd his master's body 
Soon must mix amang the mools. 

Frae the wattles dead-drop spatter'd ; 

At the candles dead-speals hang; 
Pyets rave his thack, and chatter 'd ; 

In folk's lugs the dead-bell rang. 

Mae signs yet, weel worth repeating, 
Had the Muse but time to shaw ; 

John's auld grannie tells them, greeting — * 
She had heard or seen them a'. 

Johnnie still gaed gite for riches — 
Hoarded meal still worse and worse, 

At ilk new expedient catches, 
To enlarge his stores and purse. 



93 



But his schemes proved a' presumption^ 
When the foreign stuff came here, 

This gie'd him a dread consumption 
That nae learned leech could cure. 

A great crop just then ensuing, 
Made him lank o' chaft and wame, 

Folk cried a' 'twould prove his ruin- 
Send him soon to his lang hame. 

News soon reached each dear meal -monger, 

How it did wi' Johnnie fare ; 
Soon the lads that lived by hunger, 

Around his bed o' death repair. 

"Why, my friends," cries John, "such crying ? 

Why for me such floods o* tears ? 
Ah ! I see you think me dying — 

Too well grounded are your fears. 

"Near my hour o' fate is drawing ; 

Soon you'll bear me to the tomb ; 
I'm resigned, since meal be fa'ing — 

I'll win frae the ills to come. 

"Had the markets kepit steady — 
Had sic luck been constant given, 

(Folk should never be owre greedy,) 
I would sought nae better heaven, 



94 

"Oft I dream o' B and L 

Douce men ! they'll never mair come here ; 

Never mair we'll try to solder, 
'Bout our corn, our meal, or bear. 

"Dealing now's turned very kittle ; 

Tak' your dying friend's advice, 
Store up a' your bags o' victual — 

Your best merchants rats and mice. 

"Now desist frae a' your liming, 

It expense will never pay, 
Till our Maker send a famine, 

In his own blest time and way. 

"Farewell now, my friends and brothers i 
Farewell barns and stack-yards fu' ! 

Farewell horses, cows, and wedders ! 
Farewell bonny Whitefield-knowe !" 

Now the neighbours — in they brought therr^ 

Till the house filled fu' o' folk, 
Lest some watching faries got him, 

And left naething but a block. 

Calm they were, lest by their crying, 
They had brought him back again, 

And prolonged his pain o' dying, 
By their loud untimely mane. 



95 



Now John's ghost, sae lank and mealy, 
Hastens to the joiner's shop — 

Near his wife, or 'prentice chielie, 
Gart the coffin measure rap. 

A' night lang it planed and knockit, 
'Las ! poor ghaist ! how sair it ply% — 

Gat a coffin made and blackit, 
Syne gaed rangin' in to dry't. 

Weel sic signs the joiner ken'd them, 
They predicted him nae scaith, 

But a job would soon be sent him, 

By his constant friend — King Death. 



JAMIE LOWTHER. 

Sol, frae the western sky, was low'ring^ 

Sinking into Ocean's lap ; 
Birds and beasts to dens were couring, 

Nature asked her nightly nap. 

'Twas nae sae wi' Jamie Lowther — 
He for scornfu' Kate did green ; 

Love had gi'en his heart a scouther, 
Wide and waukrife were his e'en. 



96 

Slowly frae his hame he wanders ; 

Slowly, slowly climbs a brae, 
Where nae tell tale echo manners, 

That could mock him when sae wae. 

Thrice owre did he dight the water 
Drappin' down his cheeks and beard ; 

Thrice owre Kattie's name did clatter— » 
Then sunk breathless on the yird. 

Clocks and paddocks round him happit, 
Wae to see the lad sae shent, 

Whilst this dolefu' tale he sabit, 
Grootiings on the cauldrife bent. 

"Kattie, Kattie, what's the matter ? 

Are ye gaun to be my death ? 
Sure nae lad can love you better — 

Na, I'm free to gie my aith. 

"Aften hae I crossed the heather, 

Plash in' through baith thick and thin, 

Glad wi' you aye to forgether — 
Now ye scorn to let me in. 

"This has dung my senses frae me — 
This has broke my heart quite through - 

This forewarns me yell no hae me, 
Though I die in love for you. 



97 

"Runkled is ray brow wi furrows, 
Formed by Love's unceasing smart, 

While Cupid wi' his barbed arrows 
Pierces through my bleeding heart. 

"Ance I was a fat stark fellow, 
Few wi' me could putt the stane, 

Now I've neither flesh nor tallow, 
A' my sap and strength are gane. 

"Late and aire I ance was busy, 
Cleekin' cash frae ilka hand ; 

Now quite thowless, lank, and lazy, 
At the darg I downa stand, 

"Ye'll hae nane but spend-thrift Davie, 

Not a bankit mite has he ; 
Frae starvation nought can save ye — 

Some time ye'll find this nae lie. 

"Ah ! your foresight maun be shallow ; 

Will nae telling gar ye mend ? 
Sic a dressy, drunken fallow, 

Soon will a' your tocher spend. 

"'When that mony a hungry wamie, 
Round you pines for want o' bread, 

Then ye'll think o' thrifty Jamie, 
Wha beneath the sod lies dead, 



i 



98 

"For, wi* pain and grief sae laden, 
Soon I'll glut the greedy grave ; 

In the bloom o' life I'm fadin' — 
Now your smile could scarcely save. 

"But though voggie now you vaunt aye, 
What you've made poor Jamie dree, 

Think how my pale ghost may haunt you 
And revenge your ills on me. 

"In some moonless night o' winter, 
When nae mortal form is near, 

Should my sheeted likeness enter, 
How your guilty heart would fear ! 

"Then you'll think how ance you used me- 
Witched me on wi' monie a smile, 

Till love's moody madness seized me ; 
Then you shew'd you could beguile." 

Such was Jamie's dolefu' ditty ; — 
Had his Kattie but been near, 

Sure the damsel, moved wi' pity, 
Wad hae tried his heart to cheer. 

Now, poor chield, he dought nae langer 
Bide the gurly blast o' night ; 

Ham e wards straight he tried to slanger. 
But his heart was far frae right. 



99 



THE DEATH OF LAIRD JOHNSTONE. 

A blue low twinkled on the stream, 

Which nightly wanderers saw ; 
And oft were wandering spirits seen 

And heard near Johnstone's Ha', 

Young Johnstone was a gallant youth, 

The fairest swain in Milk ; 
His cheeks the ruddy blush of morn — - 

His hair fair India's silk. 

O'er hill and dale, o'er moor and moss, 

On limbs athletic borne ; 
Caesar Phcebe by his side — 

Thus flew life's glowing morn. 

And when the hunting-time was out, 

To servile toils a foe, 
With rod, and line, and winged hook, 

He to the stream would go. 

Caesar and Phoebe too were there, 

In wanton guise I ween, 
To catch the crimson speckled trout, 

That flounced upon the green. 



100 

Caesar and Phoebe well he loved, 

And oft to them would say,, 
"Haste ! come my guardians of the night - 

Companions of the day. 

"With you I'll leave the haunts of strife, 

Soon as the morning dawns ; 
I know your fawnings are not false, 

Like those of brother man's. 

"And will ye mourn, should cruel death 

My days untimely end ? 
Yes, more than all, the dogs would grieve, 

For their departed friend/' 

For oft presages of his fate 

Upon his heart were borne, 
Which bade him lift his heart to heaven, 

And hold life's joy in scorn. 

And ah ! disease soon mark'd him out 

With more than deadly aim ; 
Through all his veins the poison crept, 

And shivering shook his frame. 

Then changing — fever's burning rage 

Allows him no repose ; 
Though still his maddening frenzied brain 

With former pursuits glows. 



101 

"Caesar and Phoebe come along, 

We'll climb yon Burnsvvark steep ; — 
Curse on my thundering gun's resound, 
It scares the timid sheep ! 

"But ah ! yon covey is not broke — 

My hand has lost its skill ; 
Caesar and Phoebe bound away, 

We'll higher climb the hill. 

"The dog-star rages, 'tis too hot, 

I'll hasten to the stream ; 
Ye sable clouds o'erspread the sun, 

And quench his burning beam." 

Thus would he rave, till, on a night, 

More calm he seemed to be, — 
His wakeful nurse then turned aside, 

And closed her weary e'e. 

But, ah ! his frenzy soon returned, 

When from his bed he flew, 
And plunged into the gloom of night, 

Unseen to mortal view ! 

They sought him east, they sought him west, 
They sought him round and round, 

Till in the deepest pool of Milk, 
Young Johnstone's corse was found. 



102 

No parent left for thee, dear youth, 

To pour the soul distrest, 
Or bid the daisy -whitened turf 

Lie lightly on thy breast ! 

Thy dumb companions now no more 
'Midst heathery uplands roam ; 

But, dreeping with the dews of morn, 
Couch duteous by thy tomb. 

There oft they pace it round and round, 
With solemn steps and slow, 

While vaulted roofs and hollow tombs 
Prolong their notes of woe ! 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON, 

It was in Nithsdale's cauldrife wastes, 
Where culture's hand's unseen, 

With nought but moss and heath-clad hills, 
And winding streams between. 

There stood poor widow Mar-ion's house, 

Far frae the beaten way, 
And seldom by the wanderer seen, 

Save when he went astray. 



103 

Now sunk in eild, — though once in youth 
A shepherd's pride and joy— 

Her husband's image still she rear'd, 
In her poor orphan boy. 

Sma' was the house, and sraa' the stores, 
That Providence had given ; 

But resignation soothed her heart, 
And pious hope in heaven. 

Such was her case, when Charlie's cause 
Wrought Scotland meikle wae, 

And made her noblest blood in streams 
Flow down Culloden's brae. 

Wi' bloody sword, and burning torch, 

The Southern soldiers ran ; 
And meikle dool and sorrow brought, 

To many a house and man. 

Whilst raging thus, a straggling £ 

Did at poor Marion's ca', 
And straight for beef and bacon cried. 

To staunch their hungry maw, 

:% No beef nor bacon's here," she said, 
"But butter, milk, and green 

Syne quick she gat a meltith made, 
And welcomed them like friens. 



1D4 

But aue mair tierce than a' the rest, 
Did cupboard view, ami shelf— 

"Sure, dame, ye've got some hidden stores, 
What live you on yourself?" 

"Alas ! my stores are very sma', 

When wi 9 the rich compared, 
I've, with the blessing of my God, 

My cow and green kale-yard." 

"Is this thy ail," in rage he cries, 

And furious knit his brow; 
Syne sallied out and cut her greens, 

Then stabbed her little cow. 

And loud, and wild, they raised the laugh, 

As Crummie weltering Jay ; 
Hitch'd up their knapsacks on their backs 

And merry marched away. 

"My son ! my son ! our all is gone- 
Heaven has mysterious ways ; 

And mirky is the cloud o'ershades 
The remnant of my days. 

"■I thought, yestreen, when thou wast fee'd, 

That a' my waes were past ; 
But oft a smiling sun forebodes 

The maist destructive blast. 



105 

"Now I maun gang and beg my bread, 

Far fremit folks amang ; 
But ah ! this breaking heart for teJ Is, 

I will not beg it Jang. 

"My mother, why beneath this stroke 
Sae sair d'ye crouching bow ? „ 

Yoursel' shall soon repair the yard, 
And my wage buy a cow. 

"Alas ! my son, thy little wage 
Will scarce for claise supply ; . 

Ere toil and time repair the yard, 
For famine I shall die. 

"Now I maun bide, through a' the day, 

Ilk bitter blast that blaws, 
And lie in kilns and barns a' night, 

Wi' riven and hollow wa's. 

"But lang from Charity's cauld hand 

Sic boon I'll not receive ; 
And thy first task shall be, my son, 

To dig thy mother's grave." 

She went away ; — but what she spaed 
Turned out, in time too true. — 

Her son, with pious care, performed 
What funeral rites were due. 



106 

And lightly o'er the hallowed dust 

He laid the sod sae green ; 
And, turning, hid the filial tear, 

That burst ed frae his een. 

O God of vengeance ! guide my feet 

To him that did this harm, 
(He prayed) my mother's sacred cause 

Shall surely nerve my arm !" 

The prayer was heard — and soon he lists 

In Britain's warlike bands ; 
And soon was sent to face her faes, 

That fought in foreign lands. 

He joined in battle's bloody fray, 

But felt no harm annoy ; 
And syne he joined the festive band, 

That raised the song of joy. 

And while the merry minstrels paused, 
Each told his prank and tale, 

Rejoicing 'midst the carnage wide, 
Their banes were soun' and hale. 

But aue, mair noisy than the rest, 

Did gain attention much ; 
"Hark how, my boys, upon a time 

I ser'd a Nithsdale witch. 



107 

"She said her stores were very sma' 
When wi' the rich compared ; 

She'd wi' the blessing o' her God, 
A cow and green kail-yard. 

" 'Is that thy all !' I sternly cried, 
And furiously knit my brow, 

Syne sallied out and cut her greens, 
Then stabbed her little cow." 

"And didst thou ne'er repent o' that ?" 

Our youth impatient spoke ; 
"Repent of what \" the boaster cried, 

"It was too good a joke !" 

"By Heaven ! that was my mother dear, 

That thou bereft of a' ; 
Behold me her avenger here ! 

Draw ! bloody villain, draw !" 

Pale, pale then grew the coward's cheeky 
And shook his heart and hand ; 

Yet shame forbade he should deny 
To wield his trusty brand. 

But soon th' avenger's gleaming sword, 

That scorned opposing art, 
Splash'd in the bubbling stream of life. 

And shivered through his heart ! 



108 



VERSES TO- 



The dew hang glistening on the thorn, 
The hirdies sang from every bough ; 

And sweetly rose the vernal morn* 
When first, my Jean, I met wi' you. 

I mind the place, yon daisied lea, 
Where a wee burnie wimples near. 

When first you owned your love to me, 
And aye sinsyne that spot's been dear. 

The lammies loupit on the lea, 

Frae mang the broom the linties sang ; 
The cuckoo answered frae the tree ; 

Wi' love and joy creation rang. 

It wasna wealth, it wasna kin, 

That ruled us on our wedding day ; 

Love did our courtship first begin, 

And still sweet love has borne the sway. 

What though we're poor, we've honest been, 
And still had something yet to spare ; 

Thus blest between ourselves, my Jean, 
On earth what can we wish for mair ? 



109 

When toil is o'er, though banes be sair, 
On eagle wings I hameward flee, 

Transported if I can but share 

One hour with my sweet babes and thee. 

What will we leave them when we're gane ? 

Nae goud nor gear from us they'll claim ; 
We'll leave them what's mair worth, my Jean, 

We'll leave them an unspotted name. 

When life's short wintry day is past, 
Wi' a' its toils, its pains, and care, 

We'll meet again, my Jean, at last, 
We'll meet again to part nae mair. 



BODKIN BEN. 



" Youths beware of Love." 



Bodkin Ben, that rare claith clipper, 
Lately hailed frae London town, 

Is sae sick he takes nae supper, 
And sae daft, he lies na down. 



110 

At yon farmer's winnock, nightly, 

Still he taks his eerie stan' ; 
Treading a' the way sae lightly, 
That ye'd think a ghaist was gaun. 

See him at his wonted station ; 

Hark ! he tells his tale of woe : — • 
"Jeanie, flower o' a' creation, 

Will thy answer still be No ? 

See my legs wi 9 mud bespattered ; 

Mony a syke for thee I wade ; 
Fin my cheeks, wi' tears they're watered, 

A' for thee, thou cruel maid. 

"Here at thy back broken winnock, 
Shivering cauld I stan' and start ; 

Neither whisky, broth, nor bannock, 
Thou'lt rax out to warm my heart. 

"Ance thou wast baith blithe and cheerie, 
Gae me meat and mony a kiss ; 

Now ye skirl gif I come near ye — 
Wha can treatment bear like this ? 

"Here's a stump, if its no rotten, 
On't I'll hang, and sae be free, 

By the neck, just like a button — 
'Twill be sweet to swing for thee. 



Ill 

"There's a pool — ane's fley'd to look in't, 
Low down in your master's linn, 

Fegs I'll tak' a deadly douk in't — 
Your disdain will shoot me in, 

"While a travelling through great Britain, 
O what dashing dames I've seen ; 

But my eyes were never set on 
Ane sae cross as thee, my Jean. 

"I, who spurned a London Lady, 

Fistling in her silken pride, 
Now maun die a laught-at body. 

For a wench on Annan's side. 

"Though thou'st used me sae unkindly, 
See what aft has fanned my flame- 
Here's my 1 aboard polished finely, 

Where my sheers have carved thy name, 

"Often have I kissed each letter, 
Fancying them thy lips o' keel ; 

Whilst thy image, every feature, 
Was stamped upon my heart sae leeL 

"Here's my goose, that's aft been toasted, 

Till the spittal fizzled alang ; 
Just as warm a heart I boasted — 

How could'st thou that heart sae wrang 1 



112 

"Here's my bodkin, sheers, and thimble, 
Mak' them keepsakes o' my trade ; 

Oft wi' them my hands gaed nimble, 
Thousands they hae boutched and clad. 

"Farewell now, my friends and country, 
Farewell now my fraward Jane ; 

Nought's for me but death's dark pantry, 
Mooly wa's and roof o' green." 

Jean, by this, had weighed the matter, 
And Ben's frenzy to dispell, 

Slyly got a dish and water, 

The burning flame o' love to quell. 

Roun* Ben's lugs a rain-shower drizzled, 
Wet him a* baith breast and back ; 

Spoiled his forelocks, finely frizzled ; 
Gae his soul a torturing rack. 

"Gods !'' he cried, "the stream's debasing ; 

By my needle, book, and natch, 
Soon the house shall get a rising, 

For thy tricks, thou waur than witch." 

Swift the laboard broke the lozen, 

Crash the goose gaed through the door ; 

Labour's sons gat nae mair dozing ; 
Up gat either three or four. 



113 

Soon they brought a gun down, laden, 
After Ben syne rin and Joup ; 

Ere that he got safely hidden, 
Hail-shot dirl'd him i' the doup. 



NICKY'S LAMENT. 

When gousty Winter, like poor mortal worms, 
Is hadden thrang a manufacturing storm, 
When o'er the world the whitening tempest teems, 
And sends his frost to chain the wimpling streams ; 
When o'er the door we scarce a journey tak', 
Save when the winds are tiding aff the thack ; 
When poor herd lads, to keep theirsels frae cauld, 
Around their backs their thickest happins fauld, 
Syne look their sheep, and carefu' pry about, 
'Mong frozen wreaths, to houk the smoored anes out. 

In this cauld time, begrutten Nicky sat, 
O'er a sma' ingle, mourning for her Watt, 
Wha 'gainst her will, had for a soldier gane, 
She mourned for Watt, and thus she made hre mane:. 

O Wattie, Wattie ! gin I binna sad, 
To think o' thee, O thou poor luckless lad ! 

H 



114 



Thy foolish turns hare often caused me smart, 

But oh ! this last I fear will break my heart. 

I brought thee up, when young, xri' meikle care. 

Wi' my ain shift, atweel I hadna mair ; 

Thy cruel dad, that triumph 'd to my shame, 

Laid nae thing in for either back or wame : 

O doubly guilty ! led me first astray, 

Then gave me up, to cruel want, a prey. 

Sair, sair I wrought, though little could I save, 

To get thee claise and learning like the lave. 

My meals were light, and few beside, I trow, 

When thou gaed louping wi ? a belly fou : 

But thou grew up, and made me flechterin fain, 

I, mither-like, was prided o' my ain. 

In eild, and want, I hoped thou'd bring relief; 

O foolish thought ! thou'st brought me nought but 

Folk needna ferlie that I look sae wae, £grief. 

When thou'rt gane frae me, now I hae nae mae : 

Nae doubt thou had'st right soon to ser ? the fremit ; 

But I was poor, and sae I couldna men' it : 

Folk wad hae thought it a black burning shame, 

Had I kept thee still idling on at hame. 

In weathery days, when near, I loot thee in ; 
And for thy sake got mony a drouket skin ; 
Ilk fortnight's end how blithe was I to see 
The happy night that brought thee hame to me ; 
I gave thee dainties lang kept for thy sake, 
The sappy pudding, or the butter cake ; 



115 

Kaim'd thy white head, and men't thy claise wi' care, 
While thy clean sark hung warming o'er the chair. 
Thou wast ta'en care of — O ! what gart thee list, 
And leave thy mother heart-broke and distrest ? 
Yet though thou'st left me, can I cease to feel 
A mother's heart that yearns to hae thee weel ? 
Now far frae me — far frae thy native place, 
Thou win'st thy bread, 'mang mony a fremit face. 
Nae mother now thy secret plaint to hear, 
To gie advice, or drop the useless tear ; 
To make thy bed, when sickness gars thee lie ; 
To bathe thy feet, or aching head to tie. 
Sic things thou min't na on that fatal day, 
When frae my grips thou rave thysel away : 
What I felt then, may my worst foes ne'er share ; 
I wrung my hands— I tore my lyart hair ; 
I cried "my Watt !" when I could scarcely speak, 
While tears in speats ran down my wrinkled cheek ; 
I cried "My Watt ! O wi' me, wi' me bide !" 
While my swole heart was like to burst my side ; 
Till even the Serjeant did his right resign, 
(For every heart was wae for me, but thine !) 
Still thou march'd on regardless o' my state, 
"Thou'd be a soldier — nought wad wile thee frae't !" 
O hadst thou died ! but why prefer thy death ? 
Even then the grave should soon have had us baith ! 
I'll try to bear't, and watch how a' turns out ; 
Heaven has strange ways of fetching things alout : 



116 

This soldiering, that maist has been my dead. 
May yet turn out to do my bairn some gude. 

Ye powers aboon ! that mak' the gude your care, 
O hear for ance a troubled mother's prayer ; 
Tent my poor bairn, and him in safety keep, 
While he's a-sailing o'er the stormy deep, 
And land him safely on some friendly place, 
And keep him there frae every foul disgrace, 
Mak' wars to cease, by thy supreme command, 
That he again may see his native land. 

Thus Nicky spake — she couldna silence keep — 
But now the world was a' maist gaun to sleep ; 
She loosed her preens, her garters, and her whangs, 
Stapt in a peat, and co'er'd it wi' the tangs ; 
Syne bit by bit she doffed her duds o' claes, 
And took the bed, that sleep might ease her waes. 
At ilk step she said, and sigh'd fu' sair, 
"0 my poor Watt, I'll never see thee mair." 



TO MRS. J- 



When leaving her native place to go to America, 

Since, M , thy departure's near, 

Who can suppress the sigh and tear, 

Or prayer to Heaven addressed ? 



117 

Now bound for a far distant shore, 
Thy lovely form we'll see no more, 

With every grace impressed. 

No more 'tis ours to drink the joy, 
That flows from thy all cheering eye, 

And still more winning smile ; 
Nor hear the accents of thy tongue, 
Sweet as a minstrel's harp when strung, 

That soothes our griefs the while. 

What though no lovers homage pay, 
And all impassion'd ask thy stay, 

With vows and prayers sincere ; 
Sure Friendship pleads with watery eyes, 
And every fond expedient tries, — 

But ah ! thy home's not here. 

Sure thou hast got some powerful spell- — 
A something that no words can tell, 

That opens every heart ; 
Or whence those fond endearments paid ? 
And why so wide a grief display 'd 

To see thee thus depart ? 

Thy husband is thy polar star, 
Whose influence reaches from afaiv 
Thy heart its magnet true ; 



118 

For him thou brav'st without dismay, 
The terrors of the watery way, 

Now bursting on thy view. 

May he who pour'd the gulphy main, 
And holds its proudest waves in chain, 

And bounds its flowing tide, 
Still, with a guardian's care, thee keep, 
And mark a pathway through the deep, 

Where safe thy bark may glide. 

Anon to make thy bliss complete, 
In happy hour thy husband meet, 

Free from all fear's alarms ; 
What joy supreme for him to see, 
Once more, his dear lov'd babes and thee, 

And clasp you in his arms. 

Canada, dress'd in summer bloom, 

Shall round thee waft each sweet perfume, 

And charm thy every sense ; — 
O may it prove a friendly shore, 
And all thy wanderings then be o'er, 

And joy's bright reign commence. 



119 



TO THE BIBLE. 



Truth Divine, enlightened by thy ray 

1 grope and guess no more, but see my way. 

Arbuthnot. 



All hall ! thou noblest boon of Heaven, 

To darkling man in mercy given, 

To guide him through life's devious way, 

To scenes of everlasting day ; 

There are who vent on thee their rage, 

As if no Heaven-inspired page, 

To lull their consciences to rest, 

Or give their sins a double zest; 

But sure the virtuous and the good 

Have often seal'd thy truths with blood, — 

Will own thy cause — for thee contend, 

Till Time and Nature have an end. 

What are those tomes of human lore, 
On which we all so fondly pore ? 
The light they give, the glow-worm's ray, 
While thine transcends the scource of day, 
Who fram'd this mass of solid ground, 
And poured a mighty ocean round ? 
Who spread these heavens of marvellous height, 
With all their rolling orbs of light ? 



120 

Or if these arduous tasks were done 
By many Gods or only one ? 
In vain did scientific pride 
Attempt to draw the veil aside ; 
What were its ever-varying schemes, 
But wild and visionary dreams — 
In darkness more and more involved, 
Till thy first lines the problem solved! 

Why is man, seeming lord below, 
Still doom'd to vent the sigh of woe ? 
Whence comes his weak and sickly frame, 
And passions none can wholly tame ? 
Search the Records of hoary Time, 
Through every nation, age, and clime ; 
Armies of pain our race pursue, — 
Dark clouds of fate appal our view ; 
And to sum up our woes while here, 
Death stalks terrific in the rear ; 
Meanwhile our guilt-foreboding eyes, 
A hell beyond the grave descries. 
Why has a power all grace and love, 

Such woes on wretched man entailed ? 
To find the cause in vain we strove, 

Till thy blest page the truth unveiled. 

As if on eagle's wings upborne, 
Thou show'st us man's creation morn, 
The semblance glorious and divine. 
That made his face majestic shine ; 



121 

His eye, with keen instinctive glance, 
Look'd through all nature's work at once ; 
While in his new created frame, 
Glowed pure devotion's hallowed flame ; 
And on his brow, in radiance' sheen 
Thy bloom, immortal Youth was seen. 
But man rebels against his God, — 

His ear to hellish counsel lends ; 
From age to age Heaven's vengeful rod, 

Hence on his guilty head descends. 



And now he found to his sad cost, 
Though duty bound, his power was lost, — * 
His conscience own'd Heaven's lawful sway 
But own'd a debt he could not pay ; 
In his lone ear still sounds the cry — 
"Ye sons of men obey or die" 
What task shall we now undertake ? 
What costly immolations make ? 
Can nature's light a plan display, 
To wash our num'rous sins away ? 
Blest Book ! didst thou teach us no more, 
Well might we then our case deplore ; 
But soothing are thy words and sweet, 

No more by guilty fears alarmed, 
Thou hast proclaim'd a Saviour meet, 

And heavenly vengeance hast disarmed. 



122 

In Thee alone the balm is found, 

That heals our bleeding nature's wound, 

From faith in thee true virtue springs, 

And ransomed man exulting sings ; 

What can proud human science say, 

Beyond this life's short wintry day ? 

Though prone through nature's works to roam, 

Her ne plus ultra is the tomb ; 

And can no certain answer give, 

If our dry bones shall ever live. 

Thou leav'st us not when thus forlorn, 

With all our rays of glory shorn ; 

But on our future fearful night, 

Thou pour'st thy beams of heavenly light ; 

Such scenes thou bring'st before our view, 

As human fancy never drew. 

A day shall come, — perhaps 'tis near, 

When well a guilty world may fear, — 

When stationed both on sea and shore, 

An angel cries that time's no more ; 

When the last trump, with sound so dread — 

Shall cleave the ground and wake the dead — 

Pierce even Old Ocean's briny wave, 

And call man from his watery grave ; 

While heaven and earth, old Nature's frame, 

Dissolves in one consuming flame, 

And through th' immensity of space, 

Is found no more for them a place. 



123 

A throne is form'd, as high on air, 
Round which the human race repair, 
When the dread record then of Heaven 
To every gazer's eye is given ; 
In letters far more bright than gold, 
The good man's deeds are there enrolled ; 
The sable taints which 'gainst him stood; 
Washed off by his Redeemer's blood. 
Then, hail ! ye suffering sons of earth ! 

Who piety's blest cause maintained, 
In nature's glorious second birth, 

A residence for you's ordain 'd. 

No devil there shall tempt to sin, 
Nor corrupt passions lurk within, 
The palm of victory ye have won, — 

You've gain'd your heavenly goal ; 
Your tears of grief no more shall flow, 
Nor bosoms throb with sighs of woe, 
Your sun of bliss shall brighter glow, 

While endless ages roll. 

And shall I wear your golden crown ? 

And walk in robes of white, 
And tune a harp of sweetest sound, 

Among the sons of light. 
I shall ! or dreadful is my doom ! — 
In thy mysterious world to come 
There is no middle place ; 



124 

In fearful lauguage thou hast told, 
That Tophit is ordain'd of old, 

For all who spurn Heaven's grace. 

In Thee man's rise and end we trace, 
Great drama of the humau race. 



ADDRESS TO TWO FEMALE SABBATH 

SCHOOL TEACHERS. 

Ladies, may I presume to ask, 
How do you like your pious task ? 
The blessed Book of Heaven to scan, 
To unfold the Gospel's glorious plan — 
Each precept pure, each promise kind, 
To pour into the infant mind : 
Engaged in such a task as this, 
Sure Angels may envy your bliss. 
O, may the precious seed you sow 
In future years luxuriant grow. 

And may that power who reigns above, 
Reward those labours of your love. 
And to your soul that peace convey 
Nought here can give or take away. 
'Twill spread for you a bed of down 
When all the joys of life are flown, 



125 

Attend you to that peaceful shore 
Where ills of time afflict no more ; 
Exempt you from all dread alarms, 
And clothe you with unfading charms. 

Your youthful charge, by kindness won, 
Strain every effort sin to shun, 
Read now their Bibles with delight, 
And say their prayers at morn and night ; 
On Sabbath with no vagrants roam, 
But con their tasks with care at home. 
Sure tokens these, that, when life's past, 
They'll find a home in Heaven at last ; 
And mind while endless ages run, 
The saving change by you begun. 

Your school is not your only care, 
The poor have yet as large a share ; 
Your's that benevolence of soul 
That no obstruction can control, 
That in your bosoms ceaseless glows, 
And every where diffusive flows. 
Like Mercy's Angels still appearing* 
Where'er a troubled soul needs cheering, 
Your conduct you so much endears, 
Has waked "a Muse near Ninety Years, 
Who to the world can fully show 
The blessings that to you we owe. 



120 



TO TWO FRIENDS OF MY YOUTH. 

A living world no more I heed, 

My themes are all the worthy dead, 

Death's ravages still doomed to mourn, 

My youthful friends all from me torn. 

And now I blush to show my face 

Among a new and living race ; 

Two of my last I've lately lost — 

Few kinder hearts could Scotland boast, 

For them my aged lyre I tune, 

A lyre that death will silence soon ; 

But ask not fiction's nattering aid, 

(No falsehood shall my song degrade,) 

While Memory's page, ye sainted pair, 

Relates in truth what once you were ; 

Again you're met in clay cold bed, 

That many a year in life were wed. 

A numerous family, too, ye reared, 

And all by filial love endeared ; 

Of wealth a competence was given, 

But your best treasure was in Heaven ; 

A future world seemed most your care, 

Which made your house a house of prayer ; 

By psalmody and scriptures read, 

Your souls on heavenly manna fed. 



127 

Made strong and fortified within, 

Against the tempting sights of sin ; 

Nor proved your faith a barren root, 

But healthy sprung and brought forth fruit 

True patriots in your humble sphere, 

To you your country's weal was dear, 

Nor it alone ; the human race, 

Found in your kindly hearts a place. 

To you the houseless wanderer sped, 

Sure of a supper and a bed, 

That Charity that gives away, 

Was still the work of every day ; 

Your house was long the favourite haunt 

Of every neighbouring child of want; 
The timid and the sick ye sought, 

And there your gifts and cordial brought ; 

Their doubts ye solved, their troubles soothed ; 

The hungry fed, the naked clothed ; 

And still you did new methods seek 

To dry the tears on sorrow's cheek. 

Then did your generous hearts expand, 

Diffusing bliss on every hand, 

When sacramental feasts came round, 

Your house so near the church was found, 

That hearers came a distant road, 

Still found in it a fit abode ; 

There with a larder amply stored, 

You welcomed them to bed and board. 



128 



When pious friends thus chance to meet, 
They spent late hours in converse sweet, 
Of sermons that they last had heard, 
The preachers that they most admired, 
The Saviour's sufferings and his love, 
Their peace on earth, their bliss above ; 
Unheard the clock the late hour rings, 
Time flew away on eagle's wings ; 
'Twas reason's feast, and flow of soul, 
Unaided by the drunkard's bowl, 
I say not, how ye labour loved, 
What houses built, what lands improved, 
Or how adorned the wide spread fields, 
With hedge rows green and sheltering bields. 
How desolate looks the steading now, 
So nicely plann'd and built by you ; 
The deep dug pond, the thrashing mill, 
All evidences of your skill ! 
Ye dwell no more on rented lands ; 
Nor yet in houses built with hands ; 
Freed from the clay's encumbering load, 
Your dwelling now is with your God. 



129 



X) THE REV, J, R. CURRIE, HUTTON. 

Good Mr Wright has left us now, 

A man of peace and love ; 
Heaven and our laird has given us you, 

Of whom we all approve. 

Our hopes are high of thee, dear youth, 
From what we've heard and seen, 

And future years will not belie 
What thou in youth hast been. 

Thy ardent thirst for sacred lore 

No time shall e'er allay ; 
Thy gracious habits formed in youth 

Last till life's latest day. 

A warrior now to fight for truth, 
And conquests make for Heaven, 
lothed in a panoply of light, 
By thy great Master given. 

Though vice and folly rampant reign, 

Yet be not thou afraid 
To grapple with these powers of hell, 

Sure of thy Master's aid, 



180 

Reposing on his powerful arm, 
Who still assistance lends, 

By conquests you're not to destroy, 
But make His foes as friends. 

Thine is, indeed, a weighty task, 
A thousand souls to keep, 

So on no bed of downy ease, 
Must thou supinely sleep. 

The bed of sickness you'll attend, 
When death is drawing near, 

To draw a ray of hope from Heaven, 
The drooping soul to cheer. 



SONGS. 



MY BONNY JEAN. 

Come, sit by me, my bonny Jean, 
Wi' thy lint locks and slae-black e'en ; 
The cause o' a my grief an' tean, 
Is still thy shy disdain, lassie. 

I've been a toiler from my youth — 

Born winter's snaws and summer's drouth ; 

And for ae kiss o' thy sweet mouth, 

Could bear them a' again, lassie- 
Sweet is the dawn o' summer's morn, 
The primrose bank and blooming thorn, 
The yellow mead and waving corn ; 

But not sae sweet as thee, lassie. 



182 

Were thousands ten left me to-day, 
Not half such bliss would it convey, 
As five sweet words that thou canst say, — - 
That thou lovest nane but me, lassie ! 

What mean these blushes on thy cheek ? 
Oh ! more to me than words they speak, 
That not in vain I favour seek, 
For thou art a' my ain lassie. 

I'll tak' thee to my father's ha', 
That stands beside yon beechen shaw, 
Where stormy blasts could never blaw — 
There o'er my heart thou'lt reign, lassie. 

For thee I'll work baith late and air', 
And a' my winnings with thee share ; 
And when they're maist I'll wish them mair^ 
Just for the sake o' thee, lassie. 

Life's day's in Fortune's varying power, — 
It's sunshine whiles, and whiles a shower; 
But, to my last departing hour, 

Thou'lt find nae change in me, lassie, 



138 



O ! MITHER, FSE GAUN TO BE MARRIED. 

O ! Mither, I'se gaun to be married, 
And wha, pray, can hae sic a right ? 

Our Johnny's about me sae carried, 
He canna get sleepit at night. 

Through a* the mirk hours till the morning, 

He begs me to be his sweet wife ; 
I'll plague him nae mair wi' my scorning, 

For fear it should cost him his life. 

At meal-time, when we hae a meeting, 
Warm love's blinking still in his e'e, 

Poor chiel', he can scarcely get eating, 
He's aye sae thrang looking at me. 

In har'st time, when hay-ricks are leading, 
To kep me, he'll maist rin a mile ; 

If his love it war na past biding, 
He never wad think it worth while, 

Last market, his arles he wair'd out, 

And bought me a fairing sae free, 
I'm sure that ye a' got a part o't, 

And needna scall oft sae at me ? 



134 

Auld Blench, too, our down-the-town cottar, 
She read me the cups but yestreen, 

And says, that it's sic a sure matter. 
Objections are no worth a preen. 

She gae us a dainty braid mailing, 
Wi' routh o' fat sheep, horse and kye, 

Sae it's never be said it's my failing, 
To let sic a fortune gae by. 

And ten bonny bairns to my Johnny, 
Aye time about, douchter and son ; 

And since I'm to bear him sae monie, 
It's higli time that I was begun. 

Besides, ye should mind it, auld mither, 
Ye were younger than me I could swear, 

When ye ran o'er the march wi' my father, 
And durst na come back for a year. 



A SONG, MADE IN EARLY LIFE. 

Now, the yird in a new suit's appearing, 
The hills and dales are a' green ; 

And ilka thing's airy and cheering, 
But me, sighing on for my Jean. 



135 

In youdeth my looks are fast fading, 
I'm nought like the chiel I hae been ; 

The fates hae laid on me sic lading, 
To love, without hopes of my Jean. 

Just now in our caussa I met her— 
She kill'd me maist dead wi' her e'en ; 

The love in my bosom burnt better, 
That no ane can slocken but Jean, 

O but she suits me to a title, — 

Sae th rough -gaun, sae thrifty, and clean ; 
For the world I wadna gae a spittle, 

Were I but possess'd o' my Jean. 

Yet the want o't gars me gang despairing — 
Quite sheepish, hen-hearted, and mean ; 

Even fain at a distance to stare on, 
The sweets that are centered in Jean. 

At markets and fairs I've been mony, 
And routh o' braw lasses hae seen ; 

But, though they were buskit and bonny, 
Alas! they were nought to my Jean. 

O loks ! if she dinna tak' me, 

'Tis certain I'll greet out my e'en ; 

O'er Misery's black brink it will shake line, 
The love-ruined victim of Jean* 



136 



SONG, 

In couformity with the doctrine of Maltheus. 

Stay at hame, stay at hame, my ain son, Willie 
The road ye wad gang is unsonsy, I fear ; 

To marry enow surely would be a folly, 

When wark is sae scarce, and meal is sae dear. 

Ha'e ye got a house, that snug ye can bide in ? 

It ought to be beild. though it ueedna be braw ; 
Ha'e ye got your meal and plenishing laid in ? — 

When ye get a wife, lad, she'll look for them a\ 

Last wages ye wau ye wair'd on ae claithiug, 

And when they're worn out ye've naething for mae 

For meal and for plenishing yet ye've got naething, 
O ! how can ye marry, when circumstanced sae ? 

Just look at lang Neddy, that works at the draining, 
Wha borrowed his sipper.meal late here yestreen ; 

Of his wants and his woes he's for ever complaining, 
And the tear of his sorrows ne'er dries in his e'en. 

To see his wee barnies a' roun' him come nocking, 
A' raggit and shilpit, and yelpin' for bread, — 

I've oft heard him wish, with a heart amaist broken, 
That he and the hail ware were rotten and dead. 



137 



And look at wee Dick, o' the Moogart ha* loaning, 
Who cleaved us a' ance wi' his sangs and his jokes > 

As soon as he married, his mirth turned to moaning. 
And he now seeks his bread wi' a cuddy an' pokes. 

And think on your billies cooped up in a market, 

Forced to offer for sale a' their toil and their sweat* 
In vain they tell over what things they can work at, 
Their masters will soon think them dear o' their meat. 

The wide fiel' o' labour, my Willie's o'er-stoekit, 
They've eaten the sward till the red mool is seen ; 

To marry enow, ye'd be war than a blockhead, — 
The fae o' your species far mair than their frien*. 

Be wise — and first gather a purse, my dear Willie, 
In every case wealth it's a comfort to hae ; 

Sic affairs of great moment should aye be done hooly* 
If Jean winna wait, ye maun e'en let her gae. 



THE BANKS OF CORRIE. 

Now snaw has clad ilk neighbouring hill, 
And frost has chained the gurgling rill, 
And a' the feathered choir are still, 

Alang the banks o' Corrie, 



Yet still, sweet place, thou'rt dear to me — 
The buss, the burnie, and the tree, 
Where first I caught my Willie's e'e, 
All on the banks of Corrie. 

He praised my waist, sae jimp and sma' 
My e'en sae blue, my skin like suaw, 
And said I bore the gree awa' 

Frae a' the maids in Corrie. 

And said, 'tween ilka kiss sae sweet, 
His bliss would never be complete 
Till ance the priest, by holy rite, 

Had made us ane in Corrie. 

I thought my laddie spak' sae fair, 
I haflins gae consent, and mair ; 
How could I drive him to despair, 

The fairest swain in Corrie ? 

My titty Meg our joys had seen, 
The fury sparkled frae her e'en, 
She ca'd my lad a stripling green, 

And nane mair fause in Corrie. 

She said, or twa months gaed, or three, 
His wicked ways would ruin me ; 
Then I would greet wi' bleerit e'e, 

The doufest dame in Corrie. 



139 

Quot I, O Meg ! your wrinkled brow — 
Your bloodless cheek, and teethless mou' 
Frae a sic skaith will safe keep you, 
By ony swain in Corrie. 

This while ye hae been wond'rous douse, 
And scald at me sae ramp and crouse, 
Would some but gie your lugs a pouse, 

They'd ser' you right in Corrie. 

Ye grovtl 'cause ye hae sat your time; 
For me, I'll no sae spend my prime ; 
I'll marry Will, and whaur's the crime, 

That ane can blame in Corrie ? 



140 



CONCLUSION, 



TO MY OWN BOOK. 

Adieu, dear Book ! thy fate among mankind, 
See Nature, sad, in mournful strains fortelling ; 
Stern o'er her fields stalks the November wind, 
Her herbage green and lingering flowerets killing , 
Just so I see thy work of fate fulfilling ; 
The critic stern to thee 's a lurid sky, — 
Thau wintry winds a thousand times more chilling ; 
Struck by his breath, thy infant fame must die, 
And thy fair page, unread, like rotten lumber lie. 

"Thou hast no tale of fairy, fiend, or ghost, 
Wizard or witch," he'll cry, "to make folks wonder," 
No glittering style peculiar thou canst boast, 
That fires some hearts as they were tow or tinder ; 
For roasting pies thou'lt soon be torn asunder ; 
The public ear can strains funereal catch, 
To form the plan was an egregious blunder ; — 
Thus to oblivion hurl thee, luckless wretch I 
As if thy fall brought round would his own fame enrich. 



141 



Oh 5 vain surmise ! — none will such rage display, 
In this, so gentle, and all gracious time ; 
To damn a hoary poet's parting lay, 
Would sure be thought a most unfeeling crime ! 
Amidst the overflowing tide of rhyme, 
To which a thousand sons of song give birth, 
Thou canst, at least, a moment's notice claim, 
In thine own place, out-balancing thy worth ; — 
Thus, with such humble hopes, I trembling send thee 
forth. 



NOTES 



JAMIE AND MARY. 

The incident on which this Poem is founded is still 
fresh in the momories of many old men in Tunder^ 
garth. An unfortunate dogger, who lived in that 
parish, lost his way, returning from Ecclefechan mar- 
ket, and perished in the snow. From the situation 
in which his body was found, it was generally believ- 
ed that his wandering so far from the usual path was 
occasioned by an intention to pay a visit to his sweet- 
heart, who lived in the neighbourhood. She is said 
to have long mourned his untimely death. 



WALTER AND JEAN. 

The tradition which gave rise to this Poem, is still 
related as a fact, by the old people in Middlebie, from 
one of whom the Author obtained the particulars. It 



144 

is said that a young lady came one night to Between- 
the-waters in that parish, and bogged that the people 
would allow her to remain with them for a short time, 
this request they readily complied with. They soon 
observed that she was pregnant ; and, from the style 
of her dress, and other appearences, they saw that she 
was possessed of property to a considerable amount. 
After residing for some days at this place, as much 
r«tired as possible, it is said she disappeared : Hence 
it was surmised, and indeed generally believed a- 
mongst the inhabitants in the neighbourhood, that 
this fair unknown fell a victim to the cupidity of her 
entertainers. It is further added, that many people 
were, at the same time, alarmed by the frequent ap- 
pearance of a spectral lady, in white, walking at a 
late hour, with blood dripping from her neck and 
bosom. 



DEATH OF DEAR MEAL JOHNNIE. 

Wraiths are considered to be the exact represent, 
ation of some person we are acquainted with, and at 
first sight may be mistaken for the persons them, 
selves ; their appearance is said to be only momentary ,- 
and they are seen at all times in the day : If in the 
morning, the person whom they represent, will, with- 
out doubt, live very long ; if seen in the afternoon, 



145 

death may ensue nobody knows how soon : but if any 
person sees his own likeness, his dissolution is con- 
sidered immediately certain. I have heard it told, in 
confirmation of this belief, that a young man in this 
neighbourhood, one night, on his way to see his sweet- 
heart (a time when people are not apt to be super- 
stitious) saw distinctly, by the light of a full moon, 
his own wraith walking beside him ; his fate he con- 
sidered inevitable, and after relating to the young 
woman what he had seen, bade her a most affecting 
farewell. In the course of three days, he was seized 
with a fever, which soon proved mortal. Another 
young man, with whose relations the Author is well 
acquainted, being severely hurt by a fall from his 
horse, on his seeming recovery from this accident, he 
was hailed by his friends and acquaintances, and was 
himself in good hopes that all would soon be well with 
him ; when, at once> he lost heart, and refused to be 
comforted ; the reason he gave for this was, that, one 
evening his own wraith had drawn the curtains of 
his bed and looked him full in the face: It need 
scarcely be added, that death quickly ensued from the 
mortification of his wound. 

A person's name called three times by an unearth- 
ly voice, was said to have been frequently heard in 
old times, and proved a certain indication of death. 
This warning, however, seems of late to have passed, 
with many of its acquaintances, into oblivion, 



140 



Dogs, in Annandale, are supposed to have the 
power of looking into futurity, and foreseeing the death 
of any in the family to which they belong ; this they 
manifest by painful sensations, such as howling along 
the paths on which the corpse will be carried, and 
scraping a hole below their beds, in the shape of a 
grave. 

Dead Lights. — There is no part of the superstiti- 
ous creed of Annandale more tenaciously adhered to 
than that of the existence of Dead Lights. They are 
like a blue sulphurous twinkling flame, of greater and 
less size in proportion to the age and rank of the per- 
son whose death they predict. There is scarcely to be 
found a village in Annandale which does not contain 
inhabitants by whom Dead Lights have been seen. 
They have often been traced from the bed whereon a 
person soon after died, and been observed to wing 
their way from the knees of women on which, a short 
time after, there lay an expiring child, and followed to 
a considerable distance until they reached the church- 
yard, where they always evanish over the grave where 
the body is to be interred — every little quiver which 
the hearse may make in passing rugged paths is dis- 
tinctly observed by the Dead Light : an instanee late- 
ly occurred of one remaining stationary for some 
minutes at a burn, where, not long after, a spring of 
the hearse, which carried the body to which it be- 
longed, was broken down, and required some delay to 



147 

put it to rights. A very respectable man., with whom 
the Author was acquainted, and whose words may be 
depended on, solemnly averred that one night, during 
a severe sickness, he saw a blue flame twinkling above 
the coverlet of his bed ; it struck him as being the 
certain presage of his fate, and, in a thought of des- 
peration, he resolved, if possible, to smother it be- 
tween his hands ; it, however, eluded his grasp, and, 
leaving him in the greatest consternation, went on its 
way. In spite of his fears he, however, recovered ; 
but the warning was not in vain. A person who 
slept in a bed placed close behind his died very soon 
after, and there was a necessity to bring the coffin 
over the very bed where the Dead Light had passed, 
and at which the person assisted by whom it had been 
seen. Innumerable instances, equally well authenti- 
cated, might be added. The Author, for his own 
part, can only say that he has never yet seen a light 
of this description ; indeed, there are many who, it is 
said, are not possessed, or privileged, with the power 
of seeing them. 

Various other superstitious signs mentioned in the 
death of Dear Meal Johnnie, are now nearly, if not 
altogether, obsolete ; and the time will, it is hoped, 
soon arrive, when Dead Lights may also bid us fare- 
well. 



148 



LAIRD JOHNSTONE. 

This young man, whose real name I have since 
learned to be Chalmers, was a proprietor on the banks 
of the Milk ; his attachment to field sports was great- 
er than ordinary. The circumstances of his death 
are truly related in the poem. He was fond to ex- 
cess of his two dogs ; and after his death they evin- 
ced a wonderful attachment to his memory. Having 
accompanied his funeral to the church-yard, and 
marked the place of his interment, they went to it 
regularly for many days after, and howled over it 
with all the seeming sensations of the most afflicting 
grief. 



NICKY'S LAMENT. 

The uncommon sorrow which this poor mother 
felt when her son enlisted, made much noise in the 
place where she resided. Her grief had been of that 
intense kind, that in the course of ten or fifteen years 
every recollection of her son was completly erased 
from her memory — or rather she entertained so firm 



149 



a belief that he had long ceased to exist, that on his 
return home it was with the greatest difficulty he 
could convince her that he was in reality her son ; 
and even this conviction was only partial, at least her 
former affection for him had passed away, never to 
return. It is somewhat singular that a filial affect- 
ion on his part had at this period taken place with 
all its natural warmth, and his anxiety for her wel- 
fare was so great, that on enlisting again into the 
Earl of Hopetoun's Fencibles, he procured for her a 
free house for life on that nobleman's estate. 



THE END, 



LOCKERBIE : PRINTED BY D. HALLIDAT* 









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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 









014 491 441 7 



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